Cathedrals of the Mind
by Leokitsune
Summary: Sequel to 'Opening Doors.' Crawford and Schuldig go to America to take care of a problem for Esset. Schuldig learns a little about Crawford's past. Set right before Glühen. WIP, hints of yaoi.
1. Breakfast for Two

**Cathedrals of the Mind  
**By Leokitsune

A/N: This is the story after "Of Kittens and Dogs" and "Opening Doors." You might want to read those first, otherwise I fear aspects of this story won't make much sense to you. Set between the original series and Glühen, and ignores the drama CDs. _/talk talk talk/_ is Schuldig's telepathy. Italics are used for emphasis and non-English words. Translations are at the bottom of the chapter.

Disclaimer: Schwarz, Weiß, and all things associated do not belong to me. They belong to Project Weiß and Koyasu Takehito.

Warning: Boy/boy love, some profanity, some death and violence. Some blasphemous religious references. If any of this squicks or offends you, you might not want to read. Thank you.

* * *

**  
Chapter 1: Breakfast for Two**

Schuldig drank the cup of heavenly ambrosia that was called coffee. Crawford had made enough for him this morning, as he had every morning since Schuldig had returned to the fold. They hadn't said anything about the new generosity, by mutual tacit agreement, but Schuldig never failed to be surprised and grateful by the small gesture.

Crawford was in his office, having finished his coffee and paper a few minutes earlier. The office door was closed, as usual. Some things had changed, but many things had stayed the same. Schuldig enjoyed the changes, but was reassured by the consistencies. Crawford was still Crawford.

A sheaf of papers slapped down in front of him almost caused him to spill that precious brew down the front of his shirt. He looked up at Crawford in annoyance. "Jesus, Brad. You almost made me spill my coffee."

"Crawford," the American replied. He gestured to the stack of papers with a slight incline of his head as he sat down across from the telepath. Schuldig picked up the papers with his free hand, an irritated frown creasing his brow. His face smoothed over into impassivity when he realized what he had in his hand.

"When?" Schuldig asked. He set his coffee cup down on the table so he could flip through the papers faster.

"We leave at the end of the week. Pack everything you need, and pack the rest for storage. We won't be back for awhile." Crawford was flipping through a stack of his own.

Schuldig read the file more carefully. Yes, this assignment was going to take awhile. "Telekinetics? A pyro? Too bad we don't have Nagi for this one." Schuldig paused, then looked at Crawford warily. "Or do we?"

Crawford shook his head. He meticulously began straightening his file. "I told them that it was just going to be the two of us."

"I'm surprised they agreed to it," Schuldig said lightly, then his smile disappeared when he saw Crawford's eyelids flicker. "They didn't agree to it, did they?"

"No." Crawford was suddenly very interested in the file he must have already pored over.

"What did you tell them, Brad?"

Crawford let the use of his first name slide. "I told them that we were the only active members of Schwarz left."

Schuldig dropped the files on the table. "You didn't."

Crawford adjusted his glasses. "I did. I couldn't keep it a secret for much longer, Schuldig."

Schuldig threw up his hands. "That's great, just great. What about Nagi?"

Crawford's jaw tightened. "I told them about Farfarello's death, and explained about Nagi."

"What!" Schuldig shot out of his chair. "How could you just throw Nagi to the wolves? What's wrong with you? Doesn't he deserve a chance at making his own life, learning to live? He can't do that under Esset's shadow!"

Crawford stood up and slammed his file down, scattering papers all over the table. "Don't you think I know that?"

"Then why did you tell Esset that Nagi wasn't working for them anymore? If you knew that, why did you do it?" Schuldig fisted his hand into Crawford's lapel and jerked him forward.

Crawford glared back. "It's so nice to know your true opinion of me," he said coldly. He shoved Schuldig back, breaking his hold. "For your information, I did NOT 'throw Nagi to the wolves.'" He straightened his jacket where Schuldig had rumpled it. "I told Esset that Nagi was enrolled in school, and that I have taken him off of active duty to allow for further educational advancement. And also to keep an eye on a potential situation that I foresaw occurring in three months time concerning Weiß."

Schuldig sat back down, never taking his wary gaze off of Crawford. "You said that. And they accepted it."

"Yes." Crawford seated himself again. "I convinced them we could handle it. Just the two of us."

"Just like old times." Schuldig smiled slightly.

Crawford found himself smiling reluctantly back. "Just like old times."

Schuldig huffed out a breath. "I guess I owe you an apology, then."

"No, you don't." Crawford studied his clasped hands resting on the tabletop. "I've never given you reason to believe that I _wouldn't_ report Nagi."

Schuldig stared at Crawford's slightly bent head. "If I had thought it through, I had all the reason to believe that." He shrugged, and snagged the coffee cup. "After all, you didn't report us when we had left after Farfarello's death." He raised the cup in Crawford's direction, then took a sip.

"My silence in that matter was not a good thing, Schuldig," Crawford said warningly.

"That's what you think," Schuldig replied. He shifted through the papers scattered in front of him. "Boston, huh? Isn't that where you are from?"

"Yes."

"Hell of a coincidence."

"Esset doesn't deal in coincidences," Crawford replied dryly. "They wanted Schwarz for this task because of my connections there." He began gathering papers. "This organization doesn't want to play with Esset the way Esset dictates, so Esset wants them gone. They're wily and obviously well-connected. That is where my connections might come in handy. If we can flush out their mysterious benefactor, then we can wrap this up handily and leave."

Schuldig drummed his fingers on the table. "_Can_ we handle this?" He picked up the sheet with the target information. Two TKs, a pyro, and an empath. It was a lot to handle with just two. Even if the two in question were two of Esset's strongest talents and best field agents.

"We have to," Crawford told him solemnly. "If we want to keep Nagi out of it, and don't want to bring in any one new."

They exchanged a glance. Crawford was right. The decision to keep Nagi clear had been made, and both men were determined to keep it that way. And to bring in anyone else, a stranger, an outsider. . . "So the plan, _our_ plan, is still in effect?" Schuldig asked.

"When was it ever not?" Crawford asked with a smirk.

----


	2. Patience is a Virtue

**Chapter 2: Patience is a Virtue**

* * *

I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.  
**Margaret Thatcher**, _in Observer April 4, 1989_

----

Schuldig watched Crawford sleep in the seat next to his. It was always a good sign when the pre-cog slept during a flight. When Crawford didn't was always a tense, turbulent ride. He was also glad that the American felt comfortable enough in his presence to sleep, trusted that Schuldig would watch out for him while he was so vulnerable. It was a nice feeling.

Crawford didn't extend that trust easily. Schuldig realized the gift that had been given to him. It was gratifying, but he still wanted more. Ever since he had come back, the two of them had fallen back into place, with only a few changes. Crawford had changed, just as Nagi had indicated. Schuldig had changed too.

He still would charge the gates of hell for Crawford. Yet he didn't follow as blindly as he had before. There was a time that Schuldig had never questioned Crawford, never thought about the things that Crawford asked him to do. He had been a good soldier, following his orders. He would smirk and make wisecracks, but he always did what he was told.

Now, he still would follow Crawford's direction, but he would coax out the reasoning behind it, find out the whys. In doing so, he had learned more about the ways Crawford's mind worked. He also got the feeling that Crawford liked this change. Schuldig had never thought about it before, but there was an ease to allowing others to think for you. The one doing all the thinking had a heavy burden to carry.

Schuldig now did his part to alleviate that burden. Crawford had surprisingly appreciated the gesture. Now Schuldig knew what they meant when they said, "it's lonely at the top." They were partners now. Schuldig felt vaguely guilty for not doing this earlier. It had been the lazy way out, and they all had accepted it.

He stared out the window. All he could see was white clouds, a thick field of them that stretched out below. They were on their way to Crawford's home turf. Schuldig was glad to be back in action, even if he did feel some misgivings at the difficulty of the assignment ahead. What he was really looking forward to was seeing where Crawford grew up, the circumstances and places that had shaped him.

He turned back to watch Crawford sleep peacefully on. Since he had returned, the dynamic between them had changed. They had grown closer, but not as close as Schuldig would have liked. After that one kiss, which had done more to make Schuldig feel home than anything that Crawford could have said, there had been no other shows of affection from the pre-cog.

Schuldig didn't know why Crawford had retreated behind his aloofness once more. If it weren't for the small thoughtful gestures, the gentler tone in Crawford's voice and his new willingness to give explanations when Schuldig asked for them, Schuldig would have thought that he had dreamed everything that had happened since Esset's fall. Especially that welcome-home kiss.

Schuldig had felt something inside him that he hadn't even known was empty fill in that meeting of their lips. Yet it had awakened a hunger for more. He hadn't pushed, because it was Crawford. No one pushed Crawford. Irresistible force, meet immovable object. The American could give the impression of fluidity on the surface. Underneath, he was steel. No, Schuldig hadn't pushed. He was stubborn at times, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to push and ruin everything. That didn't mean he didn't wish that he could.

He remembered as a child, he had once been playing with a brand-new soccer ball his father had given him. He had been walking down the street, practicing bouncing it on his head. He had bounced it off his head too high, and it had soared in a large arc to fly over a tall iron fence with some wicked spikes at the top. He had watched in dismay as the ball went over the fence and bounced a couple of times before rolling to a stop at the base of the fence.

He had reached through the fence and had grabbed the ball handily. He had tried to toss it back over the fence, but it fell short and bounced off the spikes, this time to roll just out of reach. He had been stubborn then, too. He had tried all afternoon to retrieve that ball. He had found a stick to pull it closer. But every time he tried to toss it over, he couldn't get it high enough. He had been so small, and the fence so high. He had tried until it had been too dark to see, and he had missed supper for it.

He had tried for three successive afternoons to retrieve that ball. On the fourth day, it had been gone. He remembered well the feeling of 'almost, almost—" that had been the prevailing theme of those days. It had been that feeling that had never allowed his determination to flag. He knew that feeling, and it never failed to spark that resolve. He gently brushed his fingertips against Crawford's cheek. He felt that resolve now. He was so close. He could wait, even as he patiently tried to bring the object of his desire within his grasp.

----

Crawford awoke from a pleasant dream. Long fingers were threading through his hair, he could feel the warmth of Schuldig's mouth lightly caressing his. He opened his eyes and smiled. Schuldig smiled back. "We're here."

Crawford blinked, the last vestiges of the dream fading away. They were in Boston. He took his glasses out of his pocket and slipped them back on. He touched his fingertips to his lips. Had Schuldig kissed him while he had been asleep? Schuldig winked. "I won't tell," he said mysteriously. The redhead stood up, stretched, then leaned over Crawford, one hand on the armrest, one on the back of the seat before theirs, trapping Crawford in.

/_Let's get this business over in Boston, Crawford,/_ he sent. _/Going to show me the sights between kills?/_

Crawford raised a brow, unruffled by being blocked in. "Maybe. I don't think that you'll find much of interest in Boston. America's more conservative than Europe, you know."

"Even than the English?" Schuldig asked with a disbelieving laugh.

"In some ways, yes."

"Well, then, I guess I've got to be a good boy," Schuldig said. He straightened, dropping an arm to allow Crawford to pass. As the American did, Schuldig whispered devilishly in Crawford's ear, "But not too good, Brad."

Schuldig was rewarded by Crawford's slight shiver, then the two were eye to eye. Behind the obscuring lenses, Schuldig thought he could detect a trace of amusement. "I never would expect anything else from you, Schu." He brushed past, then said over his shoulder, "And it's Crawford."

----

Schuldig flopped down on Crawford's bed with a grunt of irritation. "Damn, Crawford. I've had an easier time finding felinophobes at a cat show then I've had in finding any trace of these guys."

Crawford didn't look up from where he was reading a new file Esset had sent on his laptop. "We knew it wasn't going to be easy. They are here, though. If we can just get a lock on one of them, we should be able to find the rest."

"Without a doubt," Schuldig said breezily. "I have yet to find a mind that can keep me out."

"Indeed." Crawford scanned the rest of the file, then a wicked grin slowly spread on his face. "And I think I just found our first target."

Schuldig slid off the bed and sauntered over, leaning casually on Crawford to read over his shoulder. "Former classical cellist. Yeah? So?"

Crawford adjusted his glasses. "Yo Yo Ma is slated to make a special appearance Saturday night with the Boston Symphony."

"Yo Yo Ma? What kind of name is that?"

"That," Crawford said solemnly, "is the name of one of the greatest cellists in the world. Our target will be there."

---

A/N:  
TrenchcoatMan – Nagi is getting his own fic that runs parallel with this one. It'll be the events that he goes through while the elder Schwarz members are in America. If he will cooperate. He's been most stubborn.  
Lily – Welcome, and thank you for reviewing. Hope the rest of this fic lives up to your expectations.  
Lonecayt – It is one of the banes of my existence, the lack of back story on any of Schwarz, other than that ONE episode on Farfarello.  
Yanagi-sen – Nagi's been awfully silent lately, but I do have a fic sketched out for him and Omi. I have a few chapters written, but the beginning is what I'm having problems with. Not to mention, the Saiyuki crew has been getting rowdy lately. . .  
RoseRed5 – Thank you for the review and for your kind words. I hope that you'll enjoy this one as well.  
Lyra Stormrider – Thank you, thank you! Your words of praise means a lot to me. Hope you haven't been waiting too long!  
Hisoka – Mmmm. Cookies. They wouldn't happen to be oatmeal raisin, fresh-baked sugar cookies or thin mints, would they? I'll sell a piece of my soul for any of those. What part left that doesn't already belong to various muses and my cat, that is.  
The First Light – You know, that's the second time that L.A. has been mentioned in relation to Crawford. You might be right. If that's the case, this fic is even more AU than I thought. Does anyone know the canon here? Just out of curiosity. I'll be looking forward to your reviews! I love getting them.


	3. A Night at the Symphony

**Chapter 3: A Night at the Symphony

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**

I will play the swan and die in music.  
— **William Shakespeare,_ Othello, act v. sc. 2._**

Crawford rapped lightly on Schuldig's door. He heard Schuldig cursing faintly, then after a moment, the door swung open. Crawford's eyes widened at what he saw. The formal look suited Schuldig well. Schuldig had gone all out— hair tied back into a discreet braid, coat with tails, black silk vest, snowy-white tailored shirt and hand-tied tie. The tie hung around his neck, the only unfinished touch to a polished Schuldig.

"I can't get this damned tie," Schuldig snarled as he stalked back over to the full length mirror that hung in his hotel suite. Crawford watched him make another attempt, then came over and turned Schuldig to face him.

"Let me do that."

Schuldig tilted his head and watched Crawford in the mirror. Crawford's hands were brisk, efficient. In seconds, he had a neat, perfect bow. He straightened Schuldig's collar. Schuldig indicated their paired reflection in the mirror. "We are a pair of good looking devils, _ja_? We'll knock them dead."

Crawford studied their reflection. The two of them did look lethally elegant in tailored black tails and ties. "Knock one dead, at least."

----

Schuldig sat back in his seat. "Not bad," he said as he looked around the hall.

"This venue was built in 1900 and is famed for its acoustics," Crawford told him.

"Nice view," Schuldig said as he leaned over the balcony to get a view of the people filing in below. "But why the balcony? Doesn't your family have a reserved box?"

"Yes, they do," Crawford told him. "But it's probably being used. Someone in my family is here, I'm sure of it. The Crawfords put in an appearance at nearly every performance as their way of showing they support the arts." He took off his glasses and began to clean them. "Not to mention, my mother loves music. She is quite an accomplished pianist." He put his glasses back on, after one last check for smudges.

"With the good acoustical properties of this venue, there isn't a bad seat in the house. However, the balcony can get you quite close to the orchestra and commands a great view, a fact that is overlooked by many." Crawford indicated with a telling glance to a seated figure on the other side of the balcony. "A fact that isn't overlooked by the friend we came here to see."

Schuldig studied their target, then shrugged. "He isn't going anywhere. I can keep tabs on him, no problem." He sat back to view the orchestra. "Let's allow him one last performance, shall we?"

"We can wait," Crawford agreed. "We'll take care of our business with him at intermission."

----

Richard Rochelle closed his eyes as he listened to the last notes die away. People were starting to move around, taking advantage of the intermission to go explore the gift shop, mingle, or just use the restrooms. He pulled himself out of the music to realize that he had to go to the restroom himself. There was a long line at the main restrooms, so he jogged to the one in the Cohen wing. As usual, it was almost deserted, except for a pair of elegant gentlemen in black tails and ties.

He gave them the barest of nods as he passed the man wearing glasses washing his hands at the sink. The redhead gave him a look that he didn't like from the bank of urinals. He took the urinal furthest from the smirking redhead and did his business. He was just zipping up when two sets of hands grabbed him. He tried to fight back, to find something to throw with his mind, but everything was bolted down in the restroom.

A cold gun barrel wiped away any thought of greater effort. The redhead grinned at him and patted him on the head. "Good, good," he said in German-accented English. "Ah, ah, ah," he warned, wagging his finger in his face when Rochelle tried to gather his energies to wrench something off the wall. /_I see you_,/ a voice sang in his head.

A telepath! Rochelle froze, his eyes rounded in fear. The other man behind him, the one holding the gun, spoke quietly. "I hope you've enjoyed the performance so far. I'm afraid we must detain you from the rest. We have a few questions to ask you. . ."

----

"Feh," Schuldig said with disgust. "Who do they think they are, secret agents?"

"Inconvenient," Crawford agreed as he swung the door to the restroom closed and put the "out of order" sign in place.

Schuldig rubbed his head against the headache that was coming on. He'd run into few shields as good as this man's were. In the end, though, the outcome was never in doubt. The information gleaned was. It had been disappointingly scant. Richard Rochelle and the others had separated as soon as they had turned down Esset. It hadn't taken a genius to know that they put themselves in danger with that refusal.

So they had separated, but as an added measure of safety, none knew where the others were. Rochelle also didn't know who their "benefactor" was. It had been the leader, Vela Berdan, that had been the only one to have contact with that mysterious figure. Schuldig wondered who would be gathering psis and not doing anything with them. Rochelle had done nothing with his talent. He was working for no one. All he was asked to do was to go to a local university and participate in a study on paranormal talents.

"I guess the university is next," Crawford said.

"I guess so," Schuldig murmured absently, still rubbing his temple.

"Did you overexert yourself?" Crawford asked, a frown on his face.

"On him, no," Schuldig replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the dead man they were even now leaving behind them. "Trying to keep anyone from coming to that restroom and finding it locked, yes." He rubbed his eyes. "And there's something, something dragging on me." He made a swimming motion with his hands. "I feel like I'm trying to swim against a strong current. It's strange."

"There must be a cipher out there," Crawford theorized. He had felt the effects too. Ciphers worked off of proximity. The closer you were, the stronger the effect. It was a strange talent, impossible to refine. For some reason, the moment that you convinced a cipher of what he or she was doing, the talent would disappear, usually permanently. Esset was uninterested in them because of the passive, limited nature of the talent.

He'd had first-hand experience with them and didn't like the way they shut down his foresight. So far, he could deal with it, even though it was a struggle. He wanted to get out as soon as possible. In a wordless burst, he conveyed that sentiment and its urgency to Schuldig, who began to apply himself to clearing the path of any potential witnesses.

_/This way,/_ Schuldig sent, darting down a narrow, metal stairwell. Their descent made a loud clattering on the iron grating, but Schuldig appeared unconcerned about the noise, so Crawford didn't worry about it. If anyone had noticed, the telepath would let him know.

He was more concerned about the fact that his pre-cognitive sight had suddenly disappeared. Sometimes he had moments of perfect present clarity, but they never lasted very long before the future-ghosts and the white auras returned. He hadn't seen the present so clearly in years. Not since he had left home.

Schuldig grimaced, pulling Crawford out of his thoughts. "Damn this headache! It's just getting worse." He cast an apologetic glance at Crawford. "I'm going to have to shut down."

Crawford nodded grimly. "We're nearly out. I think that we can depend on our physical talents from here on out." He subtly pressed his arm against his side, feeling the gun holster strapped under his jacket. Schuldig saw the tiny gesture and nodded slightly. He unbuttoned his jacket to allow access to his gun too.

Schuldig had picked up on Crawford's unease but didn't comment on it. He wasn't worried. He hadn't picked up any alarm, any sign that the murder had been discovered yet. The narrow stair dumped them out into a blind corner, near the exit. Schuldig pulled his tie straight and made sure his jacket was neat, then rounded the corner. Crawford followed, a little more warily. Schuldig frowned. What was Crawford's problem? The American was acting rather off tonight. If it was anyone other than the Oracle, Schuldig would have said he was jumpy.

When Crawford saw the exit, he sighed in relief. They were almost out. He didn't like being locked away from the future. That meant something unexpected could happen. Crawford hated the unexpected. And the cipher. Here, in his hometown. . . He hoped fervently it wasn't—he cut off that thought. No, he wouldn't think about her. Not during a job. It seemed wrong somehow. His step quickened, and he pulled ahead of a more casually strolling Schuldig to grab the door handle. A soft, questioning voice stopped him in his tracks. "Brad?"

Frozen with his hand on the exit, he saw out the corner of his eye Schuldig turn to the speaker, reaching into his jacket. Reaching for his gun. His heart, which had stopped, sped up again, twice its normal rate. This is what fear feels like, he thought to himself, as he whirled around to stop Schuldig. What was he doing, trying to stop him? Then he looked at who hailed him and saw his answer. No, he was not mistaken. It was her. He took in a quick breath. "Mother?"

He felt Schuldig freeze in astonishment, his gun thankfully still concealed. Crawford took a hesitant step toward the petite, white-haired woman. Her pretty blue eyes, which had been rounded in disbelief, now turned joyous. "Brad!" She raced forward and touched Crawford on the cheek, his jacket, his arm, as if she was trying to reassure herself he really was here.

Crawford merely stared blankly, struggling with this unexpected turn. Schuldig could only stare too. If he tried to picture Crawford's mother, which he never had, this would not be what he would have imagined. She was birdlike, porcelain-doll pretty, classy yet fragile. She was swathed in jewelry and blue fox fur, her head crowned in a complicated braided twist, slender neck and fluttering hands the only things visible.

Her smile faltered as she realized that her son didn't seem pleased to see her. "Brad?"

Crawford stood there like a statue. Schuldig shook off the surprise. Crawford's mother or not, she was starting to get suspicious. He had to do something. "Crawford," he said, with a pleasant, polite smile for the lady, "aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?" That shook Crawford out of his shock, just as Schuldig had known it would. Good breeding ran too deep in him not to respond to the social prompt.

"Mother, I'd like you to meet—" Crawford froze again. He couldn't introduce Schuldig as "Schuldig!" His mother had spent a year as a student in Germany. Her German may be rusty but not rusty enough to miss such an odd name. _/Aric Rudiger,/_ Schuldig sent, understanding the dilemma immediately. "Aric Rudiger. Aric, my mother, Claire Hallibourne Crawford."

Claire Crawford gave no indication that she had noticed that infinitesimal pause. She inclined her head regally. "_Herr_ Rudiger," she said, extending her hand.

In a move that surprised both Crawfords, Schuldig lifted her extended hand to his lips. "A pleasure to meet you, _Frau _Crawford." His amused gaze flicked over to Crawford. "A shame my associate didn't tell me how beautiful his mother is."

To Crawford's further surprise, his mother giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl. "_Danke, Herr_ Rudiger. You flatter me."

Crawford finally collected enough of himself to act normally again. "Mother, I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you while I was in town."

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I understand, Brad. You and your father. . ." she gave Schuldig a small laugh. "My son and his father sometimes don't get along. They are both very strong-willed."

"If his father is anything like Crawford, I can understand and sympathize," Schuldig said gallantly. His smile was easy, but Crawford could see the strain in Schuldig's eyes. He was used to it. But those unused to the effects of a cipher could find the encounter near painful, especially if they tried to use their talents around them.

Crawford leaned over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. "I have to go. You ought to go back. You're going to miss the rest of the performance."

"Ah! Yes," Claire laughed lightly. "Your father is probably wondering where I am by now." She put a hand on Crawford's sleeve. "Won't you meet me for lunch? You and your associate," she smiled at Schuldig.

Crawford put his hand over hers for a moment. "I have a very busy schedule. I don't know—"

"Of course we will," Schuldig broke in with a smile. "Tomorrow? One o'clock, perhaps?"

"At Jake's," Claire said, jumping at the chance before Crawford could refuse. "If you've never been to Boston, _Herr_ Rudiger, you have to go to Jake's. I've been going there since I was a girl."

Crawford was forced to concede. "Very well. We'll see you at one." He gave her another kiss on the cheek and accepted one from her in return before shepherding Schuldig out the door.

----

A/N:  
_Herr _– German for Mr.  
_Frau _– German for Mrs.  
_Danke _– German for thank you

Thanks to:  
TrenchcoatMan – Hope you're enjoying "To Overcome Fear." Chapter 2 is on my beta's desk, and I think next on her agenda.  
RoseRed5 – Thanks. I recently saw clips from the Westminster Dog Show and thought of that analogy. But I couldn't remember what to call someone that was scared of dogs. This works just as well.  
Yanagi-sen – You have that right. The Saiyuki boys do love to make a scene. They forced me to divert my efforts to a side fic, which is on my beta's desk. Along with a few other things. None of my muses will shut up nowadays. It's just a matter of who is loudest. And which my beta wishes to look at.  
Lonecayt – I really, really hope that I can do some justice to Brad Crawford. This story took some strange turns I didn't expect. And you're right. It's not fair. I say that the Schwarz boys deserves some equal time in the series. Fanfics are all well and good, but I would love to see some canon on them.


	4. Night Services

**Chapter 4: Night Services

* * *

**

"Your mother. She's a cipher?"

"Yes." Crawford untied his tie with quick, jerky movements, shrugged out of his coat and carelessly threw it over the back of a chair. Schuldig raised an eyebrow at the atypical behavior but wisely didn't comment on it. Crawford seemed on edge. He wasn't going to provide the American with something to tear into.

"Never met a cipher before. Heard about them, though." Schuldig flopped backwards onto Crawford's bed, folded his arms underneath his head and stared at the ceiling. Everyone who had gone through Rosenkreuz had been warned about ciphers. They were the unexpected whirlpool in any talent's life, the hidden rocks. You never knew when you might run into one and leave you without your talent.

And the ones that carried this frightening effect didn't even know about the chaos they created in psis. Luckily, they were very rare. "I was told that long-term exposure to a cipher could erase your gift."

Crawford snorted as he put away his diamond and platinum cufflinks. "Schoolyard tales. I'm living refutation of that rumor." He ripped off the matching shirt studs and put them away with the cufflinks. Schuldig watched in silence, never moving from his sprawl on the bed. The silence lengthened, grew weighty. For once, Crawford broke it first.

"You didn't have to do that. You don't have to impress my mother."

Schuldig shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "She expected it."

Crawford was startled. "You could read her mind?"

Schuldig smiled sheepishly. "Just barely. I thought my head was going to explode."

"Then why bother?" Crawford crossed the room to look down on Schuldig.

Schuldig blinked up at him. "She's your mother."

Crawford didn't want to think about what that might mean, so he concentrated on the other question that bothered him. "What do you mean, she expected it?"

"I reminded her of someone, a suitor from her past."

"A suitor?"

"Yes. She thinks fondly of a German with gentlemanly manners. I wanted to remind her of that. The memory seemed to make her happy."

Crawford sat down on the edge of the bed. "I had always suspected. . ." He took off his glasses and put them on his nightstand. "My mother went to Germany in her second year of college. From what I could gather from family gossip, there was nearly a scandal. I suspect that it was an ill-fated romance, and they had brought her home before she could run off."

"Just the thing to appeal to a young woman, the allure of forbidden love," Schuldig mused.

Crawford ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know for sure. It was hushed up, and no one talks about it, least of all Mother. She came back to the States, married my father to please my grandfather, and that was that. The families, united in marriage. Hallibourne money backing Crawford ambition."

"Your mother isn't happy with her life," Schuldig said. "I could sense that just by looking at her. But she was happy to see you. She glowed with it."

"My mother's a romantic," Crawford said flatly. "She had hoped to marry for love and got married for money instead. She had wanted to be a professional pianist and now only plays at social gatherings to impress my father's associates. Is it any wonder that she clings to the last two things left to her? Religion and her offspring. Both accepted her as she was, not for what she could do for them."

"The cathedral," Schuldig murmured sleepily. The exertions of trying to stay functioning around a cipher suddenly caught up with him. Between one eye-blink and the next, he was asleep.

"What?" Crawford turned to the telepath, only to find him asleep.

Crawford blinked, nonplussed. Schuldig was asleep on _his_ bed. He contemplated carrying the telepath to his own room. "To hell with it," he muttered. He undressed Schuldig as best he could, then changed for bed himself. He nudged Schuldig to one side and slid under the covers. Turning his back to Schuldig, he clicked off the light.

----

Crawford turned the page, squinting to decipher the archaic, spidery text. It was an illuminated, 18th century prayer book, one of many in the cathedral's collection. From the open window, he could hear the services being held. His mother was there, subjecting herself to God, making herself from the unique individual that she was into one of the nameless, faceless flock. If "the meek shall inherit the earth," than she was to be queen one day.

Crawford felt restless. He put the book down on the table next to him and stood up. Why was he hearing the service? This was _his_ cathedral. The one in his subconscious. It was supposed to be silent, empty. He walked the familiar halls. He had taken those halls as his own, and over the years they had changed from the original in rural New England. Now pictures hung on the formerly blank walls.

Here was a picture of Schuldig, smirking his trademark smirk. One of Farfarello, cutting himself yet again. Nagi, staring solemnly back with those dead, fathomless eyes. A picture of his mother, playing piano with that small smile she reserved for those times she was making a piano sing.

There were pictures of dogs, too. A picture of his first dog, a champion Irish Setter named Hawthorne's Pride of Sun. He had called that dog Sunny and had loved the shine of his glossy chestnut coat.

Here was his second dog, a handsome mutt he had named Cody. He had found Cody on the street and fought with his father to keep the unpedigreed pup. Cody had always been his favorite. Over the years, the Crawfords had owned many dogs, but none like Cody.

But down these long halls there wasn't a single picture of his father. Crawford sometimes even forgot he had one. His mother's statement that he didn't get along with his father wasn't exactly true. His father didn't get along with _him._ Crawford was a man with his own agenda, who didn't take to the idea of following another man's, even his father's. His father didn't like that, couldn't understand it. It was a case of being too similar to get along.

Crawford reached the main body of the cathedral. Silence had fallen. It felt ominous. He opened the double doors even as the hair on the back of his neck lifted. The doors, well oiled, opened silently. He surveyed the area of worship. He hadn't been here very often in the original and never during dreaming. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting fingers of light which caressed the empty, gleaming wooden pews.

His footsteps as he walked down the aisle were the only sounds, echoing in the large space. He paused at the third pew from the front and looked left. His mother had sat there every Sunday and most holidays. For a moment he saw her, her face lifted to watch the service with an intent gaze, for once not a mask hiding her unhappiness. Then the ghost faded.

He continued walking. He passed the choir stalls, where white-clad men and women had raised their voices vainly to beseech and flatter an indifferent God. Past the pulpit, into the sanctuary. As a child, he never had trespassed into this part of the original cathedral. In his cathedral, he roamed where he pleased. He wasn't the only one. Farfarello lay on the altar, his arms crossed over his chest, his single gold eye staring at the larger-than-life crucified statue of Jesus overlooking the altar.

"Farfarello."

Farfarello's gaze slowly turned from his staring contest with the carved image to Crawford. "Crawford."

"What are you doing here?"

"Having communion." Farfarello sat up, putting his back to the crucifix.

"Wine and wafers," Crawford snorted softly.

"In th' physical sense, aye. 'Tis more to it than that." Farfarello slid off the altar. He tilted his head curiously. "What are YOU doing here, Crawford?"

"I heard the service."

"Ah." Farfarello went to the choir stalls, found one of the prayer books. He read the cover. "Episcopalian, is it?"

"My mother was, yes. This is the church she used to attend."

"What church did she attend in Boston?" Farfarello asked, sitting down to further study the book of prayer.

"She. . . she didn't. Father had started his Senate career by then. He didn't want her spending so much time in church, so he forbid her to go any more." Crawford sat on the steps to the sanctuary to watch Farfarello.

"Ah." Farfarello put down the book and picked up a hymn book. "I was Catholic, meself." He flipped through the hymns. "Sing the same songs, it seems."

"Episcopalians have elements of both Catholic and Protestant styles." Crawford hadn't paid much attention to his mother's chosen faith, but he had picked up some information of it along the way.

Farfarello found a song that made him smile. He began to sing, his voice surprisingly pure and rich.

"One bread, one body,  
one Lord of all;  
One cup of blessing which we bless,  
And we, though many,  
throughout the earth,  
We are one body  
in this one Lord."

Crawford frowned a little. "I don't remember that one."

Farfarello gave no sign he had heard him. He dropped the book back onto the pew. In the quiet, the sound was loud. Farfarello sat beside the hymnal and stared into space, humming to himself. Crawford watched him for a moment, but Farfarello didn't move. Crawford studied the stained glass windows.

As a small child, he had sat during services and studied the brightly colored works of art. Angels, biblical figures, saints and martyrs. They cast frozen gazes down on the still altar, letting jewel-toned light illuminate the rounded space. He walked back down the aisle, away from that indifference. The windows overlooking the pews were clear glass, letting in white sunlight. He passed through those beams, casting a black shadow as he went.

Farfarello continued to hum but watched his former leader go. When the door shut behind the American, Farfarello closed his eye and slept.

----

A/N: Thanks to:  
TrenchcoatMan – Happy you're enjoying the stories. As for Crawford's mother, well, we'll see what happens;)  
Lily – Thank you so much for the sweet review. I just hope I can keep it up!  
Yanagi-sen – Would you believe that I wasn't expecting Crawford's mother at first either? She just appeared and wouldn't leave, so here we all are. Wherever 'here' is.  
Hisoka – Thank you. Always good to see you among the reviewers. And thin mints? FREE thin mints? I'm never so luckyT.T  
Lyra Stormrider – Thanks for the wonderful review, really made my day when I read it ( I was having a bad day that day). Thanks as well for the info on Schwarz's background (or lack thereof). I really need to see if I can dig up translations of the drama CDs. . .  
LoneCayt – Crawford as the child of hippies from Oregon. . . O.o It could be really funny, if done right. Makes me wish I was better at writing extended humor fics. To do that concept justice, it couldn't be a one-shot.  
The First Light – You're right, if Crawford and his father were alike, I don't think that this world could handle it! But Claire is ignorant of Crawford's true self, so the world can rest easier. Somewhat. I think that I recall the snippet about his brother dying of heatstroke, but I thought I saw that in a fic somewhere. Sometimes it is hard for me to remember what is fannon and what is canon.  
Precognition74 – A new reviewer! Always happy to see a new face. 'To Overcome Fear' has intrigued me with the possibilities, but Nagi is too silent a muse at times. On the other hand, Schu and Crawford are much more vocal. I'm trying to update more frequently, but life interferes way too often.


	5. Monsters Like Me

**Chapter 5: Monsters Like Me

* * *

**

Into a psychic war I  
Tear my soul  
Apart and I  
Eat it some more  
**_--_Rob Zombie,** _**'More Human Than Human'**_

Schuldig woke up cotton-headed and dry-mouthed. His headache was gone, but he still felt fuzzy, like someone had wrapped his brain in cotton. Even his sight was fuzzy. He rubbed his eyes to try and clear them, then yawned widely, feeling his jaw pop as he did so. He looked around, his brain finally clearing enough to see that he wasn't in his suite. He was in Crawford's. Had he fallen asleep here? If so, where had Crawford slept?

A searching hand told him the answer. The space next to him still held traces of body heat. He became aware that Crawford was in the shower. He looked down. Crawford must have undressed him, too. He didn't remember stripping down. And even if he had, he wouldn't have left on his underwear. The clothes he had been wearing last night were neatly hung on a hanger hooked on the back of a chair.

The laptop across the room chimed, letting Schuldig know that Esset had just sent another file. He got up and opened it, shoving the loose hair that escaped his braid out of his eyes. He read the file, then closed it. Finding a paper and pen, he jotted a quick note to Crawford, threw on his pants, and sauntered out the door, carrying the rest of his clothes.

Coming out of Crawford's room, he surprised a maid doing her rounds. "Morning," he purred as he stretched languidly. The older woman stared at him in shock. Schuldig put a finger over his lips. "Shhh. I left him asleep in there. Don't go waking him up, okay? Later." He waved at her and went down the hall to his room, smirking at the outrage and reluctant lust that his half-clad body had engendered in her. He turned, blew her a kiss and winked, then swiped his keycard and was in his room before she could even gasp.

----

Schuldig looked disdainfully at the ratty old motel. The fire damage was barely evident, a blackened section that nearly blended in with the rest of the dirt and grime. "This the place, huh?" he asked the girl that worked there.

She nodded vigorously. She was young, fairly attractive, with that prettiness that would fade before she was thirty. Her youth was her best feature, and she hid it under a heavy layer of makeup. "Yes sir. It was a young man, younger than me."

"How long did he stay here?" Schuldig gave her a faintly flirtatious smile. He knew that she found him very attractive, fascinating even. But then she had never seen anyone like him, outside of movies. Urbane, expensively dressed, obviously well-traveled. He was as foreign as a gryphon to her, a mythical creature in her small world. He would play on that to get her to loosen her tongue.

She normally would have been reticent with such an obvious outsider, but Schuldig dazzled her into garrulousness. "He came here at the beginning of the month, paid a full month's rent." The wonder in her voice let Schuldig know that such a thing was unusual around here. His eyes slid over the dingy rows of rooms. He wasn't surprised. These places looked like they were normally rented out by the hour, not by the night.

"He was quiet, kept to himself," she babbled on. "He was a shrimp. A mouse. Didn't say two words to me the whole time he was here," she said with a sniff. "Then last night, I don't know what happened. The place was going up in flames. When the firemen got here, they had a devil of a time trying to put the flames out. They didn't find the kid. No one's seen him since the fire."

She grew slyly furtive, and in a hushed voice, she leaned closer to say, "They found old man Holt's burnt body in the ashes. He breaks into people's rooms sometimes to get money for booze." A look of superior righteousness crossed her face. "Looks like he broke into his last rental."

Yeah, Schuldig thought. He broke into the wrong hotel room and surprised a harried, paranoid pyro. The kid probably had fried that old bum to a crisp before he even knew who it was. He smiled at the girl. "Well, thank you for your information. I won't keep you from your work any longer." With a mental nudge, he sent her back to her office. Like a bee gathering nectar, he moved from mind to mind, skimming the surface thoughts of the bums, whores and other occupants of the premises.

There was a lot of vicarious titillation. It was the same for all human animals, that dark excitement at strange tragedies, that tendency to go over them again and again until the next one came up. Vultures. One of the bums sitting on a rickety bench seemed promising. He sauntered over and sat down next to him. Fishing a gold cigarette case out of his jacket's inner pocket, he clicked it open. "Smoke?" he offered, holding out the high-quality imported cigarettes.

The old man blinked rheumy eyes at him, then those eyes lit with obvious greed. Schuldig politely ignored the loss of half the expensive cigarettes. He was particular about his smokes, but didn't smoke often. His silent generosity also made the man more kindly inclined to him, which was worth the small theft. He took one himself and put it between his lips. He fished out his lighter and lit the bum's cigarette, then his own. He made sure that the other man saw the diamond-encrusted lighter, the gold and sapphire cufflinks.

_Flash the cash_, he thought to himself. _That's it, get greedy. There's money to be made here. Let all your friends know._ He knew that in an hour he would have the information he needed. Word on the street was quick, and it was carried by hungry, grasping people. All Schuldig needed was the right person to get hungry and come sniffing around the smorgasbord.

He wasn't worried about being mugged. People on the street were greedy, but they also had an instinct for sensing predators more deadly than they were. Predators like Schuldig. He let his coat gape open just enough for a glimpse of his gun to show. It would be noted, as would his ease in carrying it and his alert yet unconcerned poise. With a nod at the man on the bench, he rose and went to get a cup of coffee at the greasy café while he waited for news on his prey.

He had barely exited the café when he was rewarded. A thin woman with a hard, distrustful face was waiting for him. She didn't waste time, something that he was glad for. "I hear you are looking for that kid whose hotel room caught fire." Her gaze quickly assessed his Italian shoes and tailored suit. "Poco was right. You are high-rollin'." She put her fingers together and rubbed them in the money gesture. "Hun'red, up front. Hun'red after you find him."

"Twenty-twenty," he said easily. She was expecting the bartering. Why disappoint?

"Hun'red, then seven'y-five."

"Fifty-fifty."

"Done." She held out her hand. He peeled off a fifty and gave it to her. She took the bill and crammed it in her flat bosom, then set off. Schuldig followed her to the subway, and the two rode in silence. At the fifth stop, she got off the train, and Schuldig followed her to an abandoned schoolyard. She pointed to the derelict buildings. "Friend of mine, Josie, she sez that she saw the kid go in there." She started off to the buildings, but he stopped her with a hand.

"That's good. I'll take it from here." He handed her the other fifty. She stared at it, then set her jaw.

"I may be a streetworker, but I keep my deals."

Schuldig sighed and fished out another fifty. "You kept it. I know he's here. Now get lost." When she reached out to take the bills, his free hand flashed out and he grabbed her face to hold her still. With a quick mental sweep, he coaxed away the memory of seeing him and sent her off, $150 richer. When she was gone, he set about quietly ousting the rest of the potential witnesses.

The last transient scurried into the afternoon by the time he was done. He'd had to go about the whole thing carefully, to keep from scaring off his prey. The boy was edgy and paranoid. A mass exodus would have alarmed him and made Schuldig's job that much harder. While he was easing the others out, he called Crawford on his cell.

Crawford had been getting ready for his lunch appointment with his mother and had been distracted. Schuldig asked Crawford to offer Claire his regrets and had apprised him of the situation. Crawford hadn't much to say about the whole operation, a good sign that he hadn't had any bad visions about this. Not that Schuldig expected any problems. He could handle a untrained kid, no matter how powerful his talent.

He watched the last potential witness disappear into the alleys, then began the hunt.

----

Xavier LeJeune sat in the shadows, tears running down his face. His skinny body, smudged with soot, shuddered with his stifled sobs. He hadn't meant to kill that old man. He was so scared, though. Ever since they had made the group decision not to work for Esset, he'd been on the run. What had seemed an exciting game a few weeks ago had degenerated into this non-stop nightmare, one he couldn't wake up from.

He wished that he could see Rich or Vela. Even Tina, brat that she was. He wished he was in the dorm that he shared with Rich on the university campus, listening to Rich play his cello next door. He wished he could bury his head in Vela's grandmotherly lap while she soothed him and reassured him that he was normal. He really wished for the last.

He didn't feel normal. He felt like a murdering monster. Forever emblazoned in his brain would be the memory of that old man's face blackening and crisping in the super-hot flame that Xavier had produced out of surprise and fear. The flame had been so hot and so fast that the man hadn't even had time to scream. It was all over before Xavier could even wake up fully. He had fled the scene, running blindly until he reached this abandoned school.

He looked at his soot-blackened fingers. "I'm a monster," he whispered to himself.

"We all are," an accented voice replied. Xavier looked up with a start, then his world went black. He didn't even hear the gunshot that echoed in the empty room. Schuldig picked up the spent shell casing and put it in his pocket. "Especially among us, there's always a worse monster than you." Without much hope, he sifted through the boy's meager belongings.

As he expected, there was no clue as to the others' whereabouts. "Dead end number two," he muttered disgustedly. He looked down at the body. In another life, before the birth of Schuldig, he might have felt sympathy for the boy. Sympathy and an intimate sense of understanding. He had been a Xavier LeJeune once, too.

The empty shell of Xavier LeJeune stared blankly at him, a bloody hole in the middle of his forehead like a mark of enlightenment. "Death, the ultimate enlightener," Schuldig said to the corpse. In death and in life, the boy had not enlightened Schuldig. Schuldig had picked gently, stealthily, through the boy's mind while he sat there, bowed in grief. When he saw the boy had nothing for him, he put the kid out of his misery. "Rest in peace, kid."

The door swung shut with a protesting creak behind Schuldig. The only thing to hear the sound of Schuldig's leaving was a family of rats that even now were eyeing the new bounty that used to be a fifteen-year-old named Xavier LeJeune.

----

A/N: Thanks to:  
TrenchcoatMan – Thank you. I think the cathedral pieces are my favorites.  
Precognition74 – Ah, yes. Poor Nagi played wallflower an awful lot, didn't he? He got a bigger role in Glühen, but not by much:/  
Lyra Stormrider – Loved hearing from you, as always, and muchas gracias for the help. I owe you big time.  
Yanagi-sen – Don't they, though? Most times, I feel less like a writer, and more like a lackey to my characters' whims. The idea of Farf in Crawford's cathedral is pretty cool to me, too. Seems right, in a twisted sort of way.  
Lestat197 – Yay! New reviewer! Hope this is soon enough for you, but I must warn you, I'm not usually this consistent.  
LoneCayt – Err, I hate to disappoint, but in this arc, Crawford's an only child. Maybe in another fic in a different arc, I'll write him a past where some siblings pop up. Afraid I can't do it here, though. Sorry!  
The Masked Instigator – Another new reviewer. Always more than happy to welcome you aboard. And I'm always fond of saying, better late than never! I'm just happy that you've read the whole arc and enjoyed them. Thank you for your kind words. I hope you will enjoy the rest of this fic as much.


	6. Facades

**Chapter 6: Facades

* * *

**

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of children.  
-**William ****M.****Thackeray******

Crawford felt at home as he sat across from his mother. Like his mother and his grandfather, he had nearly grown up in Jacob Wirth's. The Hallibourne family was as much an institution in Boston as Jake's, and the two had seen much of each other. It wouldn't have surprised him if one of his Hallibourne ancestors had provided the money to open Jacob Wirth's back in 1868. Even back then, and even before that, the Hallibournes had been wealthy, a prominent family since the founding of this nation.

His mother was dressed more casually today, but not by much. She had an image to maintain as a highly placed and respected member of Boston society and as a powerful senator's wife. She smiled at him, genuinely happy. Crawford reluctantly smiled back. He really didn't want to be here, even though he knew that his very presence made his mother happy.

He didn't like meeting her while on assignment. He didn't want her to be so close to what he did, who he really was. To her, he was still the headstrong yet cool-headed boy that clashed frequently with his father. She thought that he worked in 'international security,' which wasn't far from the truth. At the same time, it was further from any truth she could ever know. She knew nothing about Esset, about psis and subterfuge, about the power games played over such powerful pieces.

Psi talents were the new super weapons, the new tools of destruction. Esset had the edge on that particular market, and they would be ruthless in keeping it that way. To be honest, it was the only way that they, and the people that worked for them, could survive. It was kill or be killed, in the highest form.

Claire Hallibourne Crawford was a cipher, yes. But she believed herself to be normal. And to most, including Crawford and Esset, she was. It was the only thing that kept her safe. Normals didn't know about the war that was going on, and there was no reason to enlighten them on affairs that were none of their business.

His mother wasn't even aware that her son was a powerful psi talent, that he was anything other than normal, much less about the things he had to do. She knew even less about his ultimate plan, the one that reached beyond even Esset's world-wide scope. Still, despite what went on in his life, the shadowy double life he led, he was still a son. Her son.

"Brad, you look so well," she said, casting a critical mother's eye over him and finding to her satisfaction nothing to disapprove of. "It's too bad that your business associate couldn't join us."

"A lead came up, that he had no choice but to follow. He sends his regrets." Crawford waved away the menu. He had eaten here often enough to know it by heart, as did his mother. After they had placed their orders, a not-uncomfortable silence fell. They didn't see each other very often, but they never felt the need to fill the silences between them with words, either. They were perfectly happy to be in the other's company. Besides, conversation between the two could be fraught with unseen hazards, landmines lying dormant that the careless word would trigger.

"How's grandfather?" Crawford finally asked. That was one topic that was usually safe. Ellery Carson Hallibourne had been a lion as a young man, a tyrant. But as he had gotten older, he had mellowed into a pussycat. He was enjoying retirement, with the help of a beautiful new wife thirty years his junior.

"He's fine," Claire said. "He's taken the new wife to Greece for the summer. From his last phone call, it seems that he's having a wonderful time." She played with a corner of her napkin. "He wishes that he could see you. You _are_ his oldest grandson."

"Hmm," Crawford replied. "I don't think I'll be in Greece anytime soon, I'm afraid."

"How long are you staying in town, Brad?"

"Just until we can tie up a few more loose ends. Rudiger is taking care of one right now."

Claire smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Business, I presume."

"Yes. After we finish here, we return to Japan."

"So soon?"

"I'm afraid so." Crawford shook his napkin out of its neat folds.

She gave him a brittle, forced laugh. "Oh dear me. It must be nice, traveling all over the world." She shook out her own napkin. "Do you think that you will ever be given a more permanent assignment in the States?"

"No," Crawford replied. What he didn't tell her was that Esset would love to assign him Stateside, but that he had refused. His contacts, built of the Hallibourne business empire and the Crawford political clout, made Esset salivate. But Crawford had steadfastly refused every time it was even brought up.

He had enough pull in the organization that they backed down when they realized he was adamant. And all because of this broken, fragile woman sitting with him. He didn't want the shadow of Esset to fall on her. She had suffered enough because of her family. He didn't want to be another in the long line.

"I see," she said.

Crawford wished that she really could. Even this caused her pain, but it was better than the pain that Esset could cause. Esset didn't care about anyone. Ruthless was a credo they lived and died by. And made others die by, too.

"So what are doing with yourself nowadays, Mother?" Crawford asked. She always had a whirl of committees and social functions she was involved in.

"I'm currently doing some charity work for disadvantaged and displaced persons," she told him happily. Crawford was surprised at the animation that entered her voice, the sparkle in her eye. "And it's because of you, Brad," she continued.

"Me?" Crawford blinked at this, nonplussed.

"Yes. I thought to myself, what if it was _my_ son that was homeless, friendless, because of a perceived disability or defect? Because he was different? So I decided to do something about it." She reached out and put her hand over Crawford's. "I haven't felt this good in years, Brad. It feels so good to help out others."

Crawford patted her hand. "I'm glad, Mother. It's good to see you so happy." And I will do what I have to do to keep it that way, he thought as he squeezed her hand.

----

"So, how did it go with your mother?" Schuldig asked. Crawford looked surprised, off-balance at the unexpected question. "Fine," he finally said. "Report."

"The kid was a dead end. All the way around." Schuldig leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "So I guess we'd better do some sniffing around at the university. The kid had a pass there. He obviously used to live on campus while he was participating in this study."

"Him and Rochelle both." Crawford studied the files in front of him. "It would be safe to assume that the others did, too. We'll have to see if we can find out more there."

"Wonderful," Schuldig said sarcastically. "I always wanted to go back to school."

"Good. Because that's exactly what you'll be doing." Crawford began to type up an email on his laptop.

Schuldig's chair came down on all four legs with a bang. "Excuse me?"

"I can't go," Crawford explained reasonably. "It's well known by too many people around here that I went to school overseas." Crawford pointed to Schuldig with a pen. "You, on the other hand, are an unknown face. If we enroll you, it isn't going to raise any suspicions." Crawford pressed the send button. "I've requisitioned a cover identity for you with a suitable academic record."

"Any academic record would be more suitable than the one I have," Schuldig muttered. "Come on, Brad. Why don't we just break in tonight and do some poking around?"

"It's Crawford. And this is a big campus, Schuldig. Where do you propose we start?" At Schuldig's silence, Crawford continued. "It won't be for long. The faster you work, the faster you get out."

"I'm not going to class," Schuldig warned.

"Yes you are," Crawford countered. "You never know where the information you might need will be. The more you're on campus, the more likely it will be that you'll come across the information we need. And what more legitimate reason than to be in class?"

"Damn it."

----

A/N: Thanks to-  
The Masked Instigator – We'll be seeing more of Claire here and there as the story goes on, as well as Brad's relationship with her.  
Yanagi-sen – Hmm. I don't think it was kindness that motivated Schuldig, more a wish to get it done as efficiently as possible.  
Lily - Thank you. The contrasts are fun for me. Hell, Schu is fun for me. I wouldn't mind being a telepath. I'd probably be a little evil, too.  
Lestat197 – Patience is rewarded, here's another chapter. Chapter 7 will be posted in the next day or two.  
TrenchcoatMan – Oh, GOD. Would you believe I didn't even _think _of the X-Men when I came up with Xavier's name? And I'm a big fan, too. Or I was, before the comic books got out of hand.  
Precognition74 – Thank you for your interest. I'll answer as best I can. It's because Schwarz still works for Esset, even if it's just superficially, and Esset wants the talents dead. Because they want to make examples of them, don't want them to become competition, or etc, take your pick out of the possible reasons.  
Lyra Stormrider – The translations are a huge help. My gratitude for providing them! Now my future fics don't have to be quite so AU, unless I want them to be, that is. The whole Farf/Sally thing. . . And you're spot on. It should have been 'wasn't.' Thanks for catching that. I'll need to have a word with my beta about that one and get it fixed, ASAP.  
Hisoka – I had wondered where you went. Good to see you back. Sorry to hear about your computer troubles. They can be frustrating. Your little sister must be nicer than mine was. My little sister was a girl scout years ago, and she never gave me a free box of anything. Lucky!


	7. Back to School, Boston

**Chapter 7: Back to School, Boston

* * *

**

"Aric, I'm certain you'll find everything you need at Boston University," the cheerful admissions woman told him. Schuldig forced a smile, even though the overly-casual usage of his first name rankled. Why did some Americans think that it was all right to use a person's first name without permission? The way this woman used it smacked of condescension. He was tempted to call her 'cupcake' in return, just like her obnoxious ex-husband used to, but he didn't want Crawford on his case, so he stayed silent.

She peered down at the transcript in front of her. "And I see you're a psychology major."

A psychology major? What was Crawford getting him into? He had been destined for a trade school before Rosenkreuz had picked him up. His academic performance had been lackluster at best, even though he had excelled in a few sports. "_Ja_," he told the woman, thickening his accent. Let them think that he had problems with English. It could only make his job easier.

"And you'll be staying with your sponsor, I see. That is a bit unusual, but we're flexible. We do make exceptions from time to time." The woman picked up his transcripts and straightened them into a neat stack.

_I bet you do_, Schuldig thought. He had seen the name 'Hallibourne Building' on one of the signs on campus. The building was a grand one, too. Lots of Hallibourne money had come through those doors. The Crawford name had weight, too. Schuldig had pulled from the woman that Brad's father, David Jamieson Crawford, was a prominent senator with lots of influence.

Brad, as Bradley Hallibourne Crawford, had a lot of clout from his name alone. His immaculate appearance and coolly professional demeanor silenced any misgivings or objections. He sat watching the proceedings now, his silent, authoritative presence putting the whole office on their best company manners. Now Schuldig could see where Crawford had picked up that presence from. He had been born into it.

But Schuldig, even with falsified records, could never be a _doctor_. _/Crawford, what have you gotten me into?/_ he sent.

_/It seemed the most likely venue,/ _Crawford sent back.

_/You owe me. Big,/_ Schuldig sent as he smiled pleasantly at the woman.

_/I'll help you with your homework./_

Schuldig did a double take. Did Crawford just crack a joke?

Crawford continued, oblivious to Schuldig's reaction. _/Besides, it's PSYCHOLOGY. You're a telepath. Should be a cakewalk for you./_

_/You can't read the thoughts of a test paper,/_ Schuldig whined.

_/You can from the other students, or the professor, for that matter./_

Schuldig sighed mentally. He knew when he was beat. He didn't even know why he tried. Crawford was rarely wrong and he knew it, the insufferable bastard. He followed the woman around the campus. Crawford trailed along, never saying a word, his presence a solid statement in itself. The woman was a bigwig in the admissions office, but she was taking time out of her day to give a solitary student a personal tour. Schuldig didn't need to read her mind to know that she was awed by Crawford.

Sucking up, more like. Schuldig maintained the pleasant façade, even as he assessed what he saw. Schuldig and Crawford kept up a running appraisal of likely prospects between themselves via Schuldig's telepathy even as they engaged the admissions woman in innocuous conversation. "What're those?" Schuldig asked, pointing at a group of boarded-up buildings set off by themselves.

"Old dorm rooms," the admissions woman said dismissively. "I don't know why they haven't been torn down yet, but it's only a matter of time. Over here is the dental medicine wing. . ."

Schuldig stared at the old dorms with narrowed eyes. Crawford kept the woman in casual conversation even as he questioned Schuldig. _/What is it?/_

_/This is what the kid saw, when he thought of where he stayed with the other talents. I think we found our starting place./_

_/Tonight,/_ Crawford agreed.

----

"Here it is." Schuldig gestured to the room he just opened. Crawford peered in. The windows were papered over, so they had decided it would be safe to risk a small light. Crawford cast that light over the room now. It had been occupied fairly recently, but it was obvious that the occupants had decamped in a hurry. They had found other rooms in the same condition.

"This is where the boy stayed?"

"Yeah." Schuldig kicked aside a novel. He tilted his head to read the title. "_Old Man and the Sea_. Hemingway. I hated that book."

"I'm not too fond of Hemingway myself," Crawford replied absently as he sifted through pile of papers left on the dresser.

"I wouldn't know. I've never read anything by him," Schuldig said with a shrug.

Crawford turned back to Schuldig. "Then why do you hate that book?"

"My father would sometimes compare himself to the old man in the tale, and it would always make my mother angry." Schuldig sifted through some more papers on the floor with his foot. "All I know is it had something to do with futility." He kicked the papers away. "I don't like futility. A book about it seems stupid."

Crawford considered Schuldig's words. "Maybe you're right. So what do you read?"

"I don't know. Usually, I don't."

"Try _The Great Gatsby_," Crawford recommended. "It's fairly short, and I think you'll appreciate that tale better."

"Is that one of your favorites?"

"Yes."

They silently searched the next room. Schuldig made a sound of satisfaction when he found a few ticket stubs between the dresser and the wall. Crawford shone the light over the stubs. They were all to opening nights of popular blockbusters. "A movie buff."

"An impatient movie buff," Crawford said. He saw the blurring that signaled the advent of a vision. A girl. No, a teenager. Blond spiked hair, striped tank top, black mini skirt and black striped tights. The movie theater. . . "Got it," he said with satisfaction. "Let's go."

"Damn, that was fast," Schuldig crowed when they got back to the safety of their car.

"Don't even think it," Crawford said warningly. "You ARE going to class tomorrow."

"Looks like your foresight is back at full strength," Schuldig groused.

"I didn't need foresight to see that you were thinking of cutting class." Crawford drove them back to their hotel. "We still haven't found Vela Berdan. That's your job now."

"_Scheisse_."

Crawford ignored Schuldig's sulking as he made plans for the next day. He had an appointment after the movies.

----

A/N: Scheisse – "shit" in German. Thanks to:  
Lestat - Hee. Love the enthusiasm. Luckily, you didn't have to wait that long this time. Don't get too used to it, luvs. I'm not THAT dependable.

LoneCayt - I'm sure that Crawdaddy doesn't mean to be a jerk, but he's so darned cold and logical. We'll see a bit of Crawford's father later on, but not much. Crawford's closer to his mother (and the understatement of the month award goes to. . .).

TrenchcoatMan - Esset probably would love to take over the US, and we would let 'em. Who knows, maybe things will improve. . . They certainly can't muck things up any more than they already are. I think here is where I'm supposed to insert a political 'vote for so-and-so,' but I'm pretty sick of the whole mess. But I'm still going to vote (waves US flag).

thekatgrl - Thank you for the sweet review. Good to see new reviewers. Angst-but-not-really? Makes plenty of sense to me, and I think describes the situation pretty accurately.

nekochan - Hmm. How to answer this? ESP is such a poorly understood field. . . The best I can come up with is a cipher is a nullifier, someone that affects a person's ESP, either dampens it or shuts it down. I've never heard of one, but that doesn't mean they can't exist;) Shakespeare's Hamlet said it best: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Lily - Thank you for the wonderful review. It is always a relief when I get a positive response to an OC. I'm so leery of them, and always worry that they won't fit in. I usually try to make them as minor and fleeting as possible (if I use them at all), but we will be seeing more of Claire. She's pretty integral. As for Schu's academic performance, I fear that he doesn't take higher learning very seriously.

----


	8. Going to the Movies

**Chapter 8: Going to the Movies

* * *

**

Tina Jordan tightened her hand on her brightly colored patent leather pocketbook as she handed her money to the man behind the ticket counter. She knew that Esset was after them, but Boston was a big place. Surely they wouldn't find her so easily. And she wasn't a fraidycat like that wuss, Xavier. She was street smart. She had grown up in the rougher side of Chicago, not to mention she had her handy-dandy little secret weapon, her telekinesis.

Let Esset try and get her. She wasn't going to run around with a big neon sign saying, "Rogue TK here, Esset welcome" on it, but she wasn't going to run like Xavier did. She was going to enjoy her biggest indulgence, movies, and let anyone try and stop her. She went into the theater to enjoy the show.

The movie was longer than she had expected. It was after dark when it ended. She didn't like that too much. She couldn't regret it, though. It had been a blast. For a moment, she wished that Xavier was there. She liked to talk about the movie she had just seen, and the younger teen always had been a good listener. "That just came out today, didn't it?" Tina jumped at the voice that came out of the night.

She whirled around to see a man standing next to the closed ticket window. She had walked right by and hadn't even seen him. He was wearing a white suit, for Christ's sake. How could she have missed him? She calmed herself. He was just a suit. Nothing dangerous there. "Yeah, new release. I like to see 'em before everyone else. What's it to ya?"

The suit took off his glasses and began to clean them. He wasn't a bad-looking guy. Actually, he was pretty cute. Way cuter than Joel Bailey, the guy she was currently dating. Or HAD been dating. Damned Esset. The suit was finally satisfied with how clean his glasses were and slipped them back on.

"It doesn't matter to me what you watch. It does matter who you are, and what you can tell me." He pushed the glasses up with his index finger. "Tina Jordan." His eyes, golden yet cold, met hers.

Tina felt a swell of fear. Esset! He had to be! She threw her purse at him and ran.

Crawford sidestepped the purse, letting it skid harmlessly on the pavement. He watched Tina Jordan run down the sidewalk and into the subway terminal. His talent, which had been balky at times since Farfarello had taken up residence, now performed flawlessly, displaying her stop. He turned and went back to his car.

Everything was working perfectly. The next stop he would find her and follow her to the dead end she so unluckily would pick out herself. There he hoped to get some answers from her.

----

Tina craned her head around, trying to see if the suit had followed her onto the train. The car was half full, so she could see easily. She went to the doors between cars and peered into the cars after and before hers. No Esset. She sank onto the nearest bench. That had been too close. She needed to get out of here, get a new address. This one was no good. If he had found the theater, he would find her hotel, no problemo.

She cursed the fact that she had thrown her purse. She was lucky she didn't keep anything necessary in it. It was just a mugger-magnet. Anyone that took it would only have a few toiletries. But she could have used it to carry her valuables in when she got to the hotel. She didn't have time to pack her suitcase, which was her only other bag. "To hell with it," she muttered. She didn't have to go to the hotel.

She had money on her. Everything in her room could be replaced. She got off at the next stop, three stops before her hotel one. Let the bastard find her now. "You dropped your purse, Miss Jordan," a voice called out. She didn't even turn. She stretched out her long legs and ran for her life.

Crawford watched her go, then scaled the ladder on the side of the building he was next to. If he went south across the rooftops, he would be able to come to their final meeting place. "Until then, Miss Jordan."

Tina stopped for a breath, leaning against the rough brick wall. She was at the mouth of an alley, between an antique shop and a brokerage firm. She was in the historical district. It was dead at this time of night; she was the only person she heard moving around. She cursed her luck. She should have headed towards the clubs and bars, any place that had people. Surely Esset wouldn't try anything if there was witnesses around. Here, there was nothing.

She straightened and jogged down the alley. She had to get out of here, stay out of sight. That meant traveling behind the shops, if possible. Service access ways were her highway tonight. She came to a wooden fence instead, barring her way. "Damn it!"

"Yes, a bad stroke of luck," a man's voice agreed. The suit! She whirled around. A soft, muffled gunshot was heard, then she felt pain. Pain like she had never felt before. She collapsed against the wall, slowly sliding down it. She clutched her stomach, felt her own blood on her fingers.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Crawford asked. People who had never been shot before never seemed to be able to get past the pain, certainly not to the point where they could be a threat. Crawford pointed the silenced gun at her temple, smiling when the tough-girl face slid away, revealing the frightened girl underneath. He could work with fear. "Tell me what you know about Vela Berdan and who's behind all this."

----

Schuldig sneered at the white building he was about to enter. Students, many about his age, streamed around him, hurrying to and fro to the classes on the schedules clutched in their nervous hands. Schuldig may have been the same age as some of them, but he was worlds away from them mentally. These fresh-faced young things had never faced life, much less death, as he had.

He didn't need to skim them to know that their thoughts were so naïve, so unaware. They were like babes in the woods. Many had lived normal lives at home until now, sheltered from the hard realities of life by their parents. They had never seen true suffering, never feared for their lives, never been forced to perform or die. Never had they held guns in their hands and taken lives so often they had a favored target on the human body. Schuldig preferred head shots. It silenced thoughts very effectively.

There were whole worlds, dark ones, that many of these students would never see, ones that he was intimately familiar with. He smirked at a young blonde that skirted skittishly past him, an uneasy look in her eye. She smelled predator, but she didn't know the scent well enough to understand what it was that she was sensing. Her instincts knew, though. She was one of the few smart enough to listen to that small, wise voice of primal sense.

Most of the unwary ones were ones that society would have labeled 'old enough to know better.' Since he was taking a night class tonight, there were quite a few older people, people not fresh out of high school. Like the woman approaching him with a practiced slink and a gleam that even a non-telepath could read. Lust, pure and simple. She was following another primal directive altogether, one that shut out the wiser one that would have sensed the killer.

If he was Farfarello, he would have killed the woman for her sinful thoughts, denied her a chance at seeing the error of her ways and redeeming herself. He would have denied the Great Destroyer another soul. If he was Crawford, he would have rebuffed the woman coolly, not even giving her a second thought. She had no place in his scheme of things, so she was irrelevant. Nagi would have turned her away coldly too, but for a different reason. Fear and distrust were the fences that Nagi had around him, buffering him in a cold no-man's-land.

He wasn't any of them. He was Schuldig. And Schuldig loved to play with his prey. "Hello there."

"Hi yourself," the girl said, giving Schuldig an interested smile. "Goin' my way?" she indicated the building they both stood in front of.

"Yeah. Psych class."

"Oh, which one? Spracklen's, or Tatreau's? Maybe we could sit next to each other and share. . . notes," she purred suggestively.

"Notes, hmm? Let's see," Schuldig said lazily as he flipped open his textbook. He had placed the slip of paper in there to prevent it from getting lost. Instead of finding a printed schedule, a note in Crawford's bold hand greeted him: _Don't get distracted. Leave the woman alone. Go to class._ Schuldig hissed through his teeth. Dealing with a pre-cog could be such a pain. They never failed to know the exact time to ruin all a man's fun.

----

Schuldig yawned hugely, mockingly, at the professor's frown. The man was angry at Schuldig's obvious boredom, but didn't like the gleam in Schuldig's eye, the one daring him to say something. He turned to the chalkboard instead. Schuldig regarded his back with faint disappointment, then dismissed the man. Instead, he occupied himself by drawing mustaches and other embellishments on the pictures in his textbook.

His first class was a bust. The teacher was an uptight prick (French one, at that), the students took themselves much too seriously, and the subject was laughable. What did non-telepaths really think they could understand about the human mind? He swam through hundreds of them everyday and even he couldn't profess to know everything about them.

Sure, he knew many things about the way people thought that would make these professors look like rank amateurs. However, the human mind was too complex. Best just to let it run, and kill off the ones that couldn't function usefully anymore. Survival of the fittest worked for him. If there was a code that Schwarz followed, it was that. And they were at the top of the food chain.

He skimmed through the thoughts of his fellow classmates. Boring, boring— hmm. That might be interesting for later. Let's see, who else? Laughable. Stupid. That kid's nuts. That kid's obsessed with her boyfriend. Pathetic. And that kid needs to stop imagining the teacher naked. It was getting creepy.

There was nothing of any relevance in any of these people's minds. He propped his head on his hand and sighed heavily. He hoped that Crawford was having better luck.

----

Crawford walked out of the alley and turned down the street back to his car. That had been disappointing. Just like the boy and the cellist, Tina Jordan hadn't known where the others were, or who was the one that was helping them, bank-rolling the research program they worked with. She had a little more information than the other two because she was more inquisitive than they were. She was sure that Vela was well acquainted with a local, and that this local would probably know where Vela was because Vela tended to stay close.

Other than that, nothing. Crawford unlocked the car and got in. After Jordan had died, he hadn't gotten any useful visions. He knew that Schuldig had just returned from his night classes, so he might as well return to the hotel and try and sketch out a new game plan, for this one was going nowhere.

----

A/N:  
TrenchcoatMan – If Esset had been on the ballot, I might have considered it. . .  
Lestat197 – Yum, cookies. Everyone definitely deserves one for being so patient!  
LoneCayt – He's not your typical student, that's for sure.  
Lily – Thank you so much for the compliments. I'm with you. I just can't imagine Schu as a completely irresponsible idiot. I don't think that Esset or Crawford would have put up with it.  
Precognition74 – Isn't it funny? As many people would give their eyeteeth for Schu's opportunity, and he doesn't want to go! Isn't that they way it always works?


	9. New Leads

**Chapter 9: New Leads

* * *

**

Schuldig barely looked up when he answered the door to let Crawford in. "The university is a dead end," they said simultaneously. Schuldig lifted his head from the newspaper he had been reading and raised a brow. Crawford shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair, then went to Schuldig's in-room coffee-maker.

"I questioned Jordan," he told Schuldig as he poured himself a cup of coffee. It looked black as tar and about as viscous. "When they made the decision to refuse Esset, they cut all ties with the university."

"And the university didn't even know about its psi dorm residents or about the experiments they were conducting. It all must have been underground," Schuldig supplied the fruits of his day's labor, skimming the students and faculty.

"No official tie with the university at all." Crawford grimaced at the first sip of coffee, then stoically continued drinking.

"Back to square one." Schuldig tossed his newspaper on the table in disgust. "So now what? Do we go back to Tokyo until Vela Berdan resurfaces?"

"No. Berdan is in Boston, do not mistake it. She's friendly with one of the locals, and it's a pretty good bet that's where she is." Crawford put the cup down. Half a cup of that sludge was all he could take.

Schuldig picked up Crawford's abandoned cup. "There's around six million people in this metro area, Crawford. How do you propose we find just one?"

"I don't know, Schuldig," Crawford said. His eyes narrowed as he watched Schuldig drink. The sight never failed to arouse him. Not to mention the way Schuldig unconsciously licked his lips after— he forced himself to ignore it and get back to the business at hand. "But we do have another avenue to pursue: the researchers who worked with these talents. They might have more of a clue as to who their backer was, who wanted to know more about psis than Esset would like."

"Maybe they were working independently," Schuldig said thoughtfully, as he finished the last of the coffee.

Crawford wrinkled his nose slightly. How could the German drink that stuff and not even blink an eye? "No," he answered. "Jordan mentioned that she had overheard them talking about 'their investor' on more than one occasion. Someone bankrolled this, hired those scientists to find out more about ESP." He wished that they had met in his room. He could have had a decent cup of coffee there. "Reasons why would be interesting but in the end irrelevant. We can't let this 'investor' gather any more information than he already has. As a matter of fact, Esset has a higher priority on the investor than the talents."

"So he's top of the hit list," Schuldig said cheerfully. "Once we find him, that is. Well, from the images I lifted from Rochelle and LeJeune, I know that it was a team of three scientists, two men and a woman. None of the three work at the university." He raised a brow in question. "Are we to kill them too?"

Crawford shook his head. "Maybe. However, Esset doesn't require their deaths." Even though one was dead already. That was how they found out about this research project. Too bad the man had killed himself before a telepath could interrogate him. "You'll have to mind wipe them if we can't find a way to silence them unobtrusively."

"Oh, lovely. My favorite thing to do," Schuldig said sarcastically. Getting people to 'forget' one or two recent incidents wasn't that hard. Mind wipes were a different matter. Mind wipes were never easy. He had to immerse himself into his subject to do a thorough job. Sometimes that led to Schuldig getting 'lost,' a telepath's worst fear. In the worst cases, Schuldig had taken days before he could 'find' himself and regroup.

"Go through me first, and keep up your link to me," Crawford commanded. "I can help pull you back that way."

Schuldig blinked in surprise. Crawford had never offered that before. He had in essence invited Schuldig in. "Crawford—" he began, then decided not to press his luck. "Okay."

"That still brings us to the problem of finding these people," Crawford mused. He rubbed his chin as he thought. Then he turned to pin Schuldig with a questioning stare. "Do you think that you could recognize these scientists if you saw pictures of them?"

"I suppose so," Schuldig agreed.

"Well then, let's hit a few of these scientific associations. Some of them keep pictures of their members. If any of the people we're looking for are associated with any of them, we can find them that way."

"And I can skim through some of the minds of the members. Maybe they'll remember something." Schuldig rubbed his temple. "Ever since I played host to Farfarello, I seem more prone to headaches."

"Don't push yourself," Crawford said. "You've been working your talent hard lately."

Schuldig looked up, astonished.

Crawford frowned at the look of shock. "What? I've worked with you for years. I notice these things."

"Yeah, I guess you do," Schuldig said. _But in the past, Crawford wouldn't have cared as long as we attained our goal, much less said anything about it_, Schuldig thought. He picked up the paper and opened it back up again to hide his satisfied smile.

----

"Jesus, Crawford, my eyes are going to cross if I have to look at another row of –"

"This is the last book, Schuldig. Just close your eyes for a moment, then take another look." Crawford put the thick book in front of Schuldig and flipped it open.

Schuldig rubbed his eyes. "You said that about three books ago."

"They found these just a minute ago. You're almost done." Crawford took off his glasses and rubbed his own eyes. He understood where Schuldig was coming from. He hadn't had to study the rows of black and white pictures, and his eyes were tired. Schuldig, who never really liked to sit still in the first place, must be feeling tortured.

"That's one of them! The girl on the far left."

Crawford followed Schuldig's finger. "Francesca Lovani. Degrees in sociology and behavioral science."

"Does it have her current address?"

Crawford read the rest of the small caption under her picture. "No. This picture isn't even recent. It was taken five years ago."

"That's no good." Schuldig motioned to the archivist who had been hovering protectively in the background. "Hey, what do you know about her?"

The archivist took a look at the picture and sniffed. "Lovani always was into strange things. She doesn't come around anymore because of the criticism she received on her most recent paper. She can't get a job because everyone's convinced she's a crackpot." The archivist put a finger near his temple and twirled it in a circle. "I hope you weren't thinking of hiring her. She gives our profession a bad name."

"What was her last paper on?" Crawford asked.

"Pure fantasy and hogwash, that's what it was. Some lame-brained study on ESP. Can you believe such a thing?"

The pre-cog and the telepath traded an amused and triumphant glance. They had found their target. "You wouldn't happen to have a way I can contact her, would you?" Crawford asked.

The archivist gave him a sour look. "She lives with her husband, a _true_ doctor." He took the book from Schuldig and flipped to the page he was looking for. "There. Michael Sutter. Doctor of psychology. He has a private office in the city." Schuldig glanced at the picture and gave Crawford a tiny nod. It was one of the other scientists.

Crawford and Schuldig descended the stone steps from the archive. "Time to visit the good doctor, hmm?" Schuldig asked.

Crawford frowned. Sutter. The named sounded familiar. He was active in the same functions that his mother attended. "Sutter is a pillar of the community. Now that I recall, his wife was considered 'mildly eccentric.'"

"In other words, 'I'm nuts, but I have money,'" Schuldig snorted.

"Yes. Sutter is the son of Vanessa Waring-Rhinehart, from her first marriage. He moves in the same circles my mother does and is wealthy in his own right. It's no surprise he went into medicine. He always was of a scholarly bent."

"This is where your family contacts will come in handy," Schuldig said.

"Unfortunately so. It looks like I'm going to have to make an appearance. And you're coming with me."

"Me? Why?"

"According to your cover, you're Aric Rudiger, second son of a respectable German family of no small wealth. I'm sponsoring you, and as your host so it would be considered odd if you didn't attend with me."

"Damn! I suppose that means I have to be on my best behavior," Schuldig said gloomily.

"Not really," Crawford said. "As a matter of fact, I hope you won't be." He adjusted his glasses, making it hard for Schuldig to read his expression.

"What does that mean?"

"With me hosting you, the assumption many will make is that you're my. . ."

"Lover? Boy toy?" Schuldig grinned.

"Something like that. If you're too formal, they will think that you're sucking up to them and give you the cut direct. However, if you're your usual self—"

"Stylish, witty and charming—"

"More like flashy, outrageous and brash. They will respect and even like you for it. A bit of rebellion, as long as it isn't from their own ranks, will amuse them. It will also distract them." Crawford continued down the stairs.

"I can do that," Schuldig said. He looked down at the nape of Crawford's neck, the clean cut of his hair line. He lightly ran a finger over that, tracing the V where hair stopped and skin began. "That means I get to touch you, doesn't it?"

Schuldig felt the skin under his fingertips quiver, then Crawford stepped forward, out of his reach. "Yes. But discreetly. They are willing to overlook such things as long as they aren't obvious."

"Like this?" Schuldig lightly brushed his fingertips against Crawford's as he passed him on the stairs. To his surprise, Crawford's fingers intertwined with his.

"Something like that." That light joining of fingers was gone like smoke, and Crawford was passing him again. Schuldig looked after Crawford, rubbing his tingling fingers lightly together.

----

A/N:   
Here you are, StaceS. Hope you enjoy this chapter.   
Lily – Poor Schu, Big Brother Crawford is always watching him. He's always a step ahead. Of luckless TKs and German telepaths in particular.   
Lestat197 – Thanks for the encouragement, I always love you guys for that.   
TrenchcoatMan – Droopy: "Oh my." -Eyeglass shine- _Shiing._ OMG, that had me cackling like a witch over here. On a more serious note, Crawford makes such a good cat on the stalk. Mrowr.


	10. Lions and the Fox Turned Hound

**Chapter 10: Lions and the Fox Turned Hound

* * *

**

I'm on the hunt I'm after you  
Smell like I sound, I'm lost in a crowd  
And I'm hungry like the wolf

**--Duran Duran, _"Hungry Like the Wolf"_**

"Brad, I'm so glad you could make it," Claire said, giving her son a kiss on the cheek.

"I was in town, and I knew that you were running this charity event. I had to come and show my support," Crawford told her, kissing her in return. "You look wonderful tonight." And she did. Claire Crawford would never show up in public looking anything less than her best. Her hair was professionally styled into a dramatic upsweep. She was dressed in a dark blue designer original, which deepened the sapphires in her antique diamond and sapphire choker.

There was something beyond the polished surface. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were rosy. She looked. . . happy. Content. Unpleasantly, Crawford realized that it had been many years since he had seen contentment on her face. He waved Schuldig forward. "You remember Aric, don't you?" He let his hand rest on Schuldig's shoulder, just a fraction longer than necessary. His mother, and the society mavens with her, noted the subtle gesture with their sharp, nuance-attuned eyes.

"Of course," Claire said, extending her hand. "It is good to see you again, _Herr_ Rudiger."

"The pleasure is mine," Schuldig assured her with a smooth bow and a kiss to her fingertips. The mavens with Claire relaxed and cooed over the old-world gesture. Crawford left Schuldig to charm and distract the crowd as he tried to find Dr. Sutter and his wife. He found them arguing on the back terrace.

Crawford slipped into the shadows and watched the two. They both were tense, even though they were trying to hide it. Lovani jumped at small sounds. They must know about the deaths of their former test subjects. But how? In the shadows, Crawford silently moved closer.

"I don't know, Frankie. I have to go to that charity golf tournament this Saturday. They're expecting me. To suddenly leave town—"

Lovani whirled on her husband, her face twisted in fear and anger and her arms crossed over her body. "How can you worry about playing a couple of holes at the expense of our safety?" Her arms tightened protectively. "Rochelle, Xavier, and now Tina." She raised a hand to cover her face. "Xavier and Tina, they were just children."

Sutter sighed. "If you hadn't gotten us involved—"

"You weren't complaining at first, Mike. We had _real_ psis. You saw what they could do. You saw it, just like I did."

"It was exciting, at first. But we should have realized the dangers involved."

"What dangers? No one warned us that they might be targets for murder! Ridicule or skepticism, even persecution, yes. Not murder!" Lovani paced agitatedly.

"Shh, keep your voice down," Sutter said tensely, peering into the dark.

Lovani changed tactics. "Please, Mike. It'll just be for a few days. Just until things die down here."

"What about Dr. Randa? No one's warned him yet. He's in just as much danger as we are."

"Sam disappeared as soon as Vela told us the program was disbanded. I guess he turned out to be smarter than us."

Sutter smiled wryly. "Coming from a country familiar with changes in regime no doubt made him more sensitive to smelling what's on the winds of change."

"We should have followed his example." Lovani sounded frightened.

Her husband came over to her and put his arms around her. "There, there. Don't cry. We'll be all right. We'll leave for Atlantic City right after the tournament, I promise. Let's get back inside before anyone misses us."

Crawford watched them pass. They were so wrapped up in each other, they hadn't thought to check further for eavesdroppers. He rejoined the party himself, this time to see if he could ferret out the location of Sutter's favorite Atlantic City retreat.

----

Schuldig found himself ringed by several women, most old enough to be his mother. His agile mind flitted from one to the next as he held court. Most of them were harmless. Some were drawn by his accent or his good looks, some by the crowd already there, starlings mindlessly seeking a flock to gather in. He had reeled in others just to add variety. The surge and loss of his powers as Claire Crawford made her rounds around the room had been disconcerting at first, but now he just looked on it as a challenge.

His telepathy had always been a useful decoding tool, a device he could use to interpret what certain expressions and undertones meant. Over the years, he had gotten to the point where he could read people's expressions easily, even without exerting his telepathy. He used that skill now to ride the turbulent tides caused by Claire Crawford, to fill the gaps she left in her wake.

This was an easy crowd, really. Claire Crawford was a seasoned general in the social whirl. She had carefully executed her game plan, had weighed every invite and mixed and blended people like chemicals, never allowing too discordant parts to interfere with her carefully orchestrated event. It resulted in a homogenized group, one she could easily handle. For someone like Schuldig, who delighted and excelled in manipulating people, that made the room child's play, even without his psychic talent.

The ones he had to watch were the two coy ones. Fittingly, they were related, mother and daughter. Out of the brightly colored flock that fluttered around him, they were like two vultures in songbird plumage. The mother was tall, elegant, and well-preserved by the best plastic surgery money could buy. The daughter was a echo of her mother, tall and elegant, the still-natural version. The plastic surgery was years down the road for her but undeniably there. Schuldig didn't need to be a pre-cog to see that.

The daughter was easy to deflect. She just wanted to get him in bed. She was tired of her latest boy toy and was shopping for a new one like she would shop for a handbag or pair of shoes. Schuldig diverted her by planting a new challenge before her—the hapless waiter that circulated in this portion of the room. Unluckily for her, the young man didn't like blondes. Or women, for that matter.

The mother was the more difficult of the two. And the more dangerous. She was a vulture with a vendetta. Somewhere, somehow, the Crawford family had crossed her and she wanted payback. She was a canny old hand at it, too. Schuldig saw in her mind the wrecks of other enemies that had wronged her buried like debris in a silty inlet bottom. Schuldig had skimmed through them, reading her past victories and admiring them, all the more impressive with her lack of telepathy. She was canny, but Schuldig was cannier. He amused himself by toying with her, dropping tantalizing tidbits here and there. She was the one who clued him in to the reason for the change in the room.

Her predatory eyes narrowed, and anger flashed in them as she spotted something past him. Schuldig parted from her on the pretext of getting another glass of wine from a passing waiter. As he turned, he looked for what had raised the woman's ire. It was probably Crawford, coming back from eavesdropping on the good doctors. Crawford had already sent him the information as he made his way back. It was Crawford. But the wrong one.

Senator David J. Crawford's entrance into the room was marked by a change in the currents of conversation. He had not failed to garner attention, as he had anticipated with his precisely timed entrance. The elder Crawford moved through the glittering crowd like a shark, white teeth gleaming in a wide smile. To the prey that surrounded him, the smile seemed hearty, charismatic. The perfect smile for a politician, his best weapon against incumbents. He had defeated six of them with that white dental scythe.

To fellow predators, it carried a different light. Cold, precise, efficiently wielded, it was a mask to hide behind as he went searching for the next victim. The eyes told all. They were shielded by respectable wire-rimmed glasses, but Schuldig could see that gaze sweep around the room, assessing, evaluating. Schuldig noted the probing gaze stop abruptly, then lock. A new gleam appeared. One of battle.

Schuldig obliquely tried to see around the heavyset woman that was talking to him. Her sequined, black-clad form obdurately denied him a peek of what had caught the elder Crawford's interest. However, it didn't take a genius to figure out what had caught the elder Crawford's attention, what had made the alpha male prime himself for battle.

Schuldig wasn't much of a student, but he understood human nature exceedingly well. What was a human, after all, but just an animal underneath the civilized veneer? Senator Crawford was the dominant lion of this artificial, opulent Serengeti. He ruled it, a confident, relaxed beast moving about his territory. Only one thing could have stirred the fire of combat, made the hackles rise. A threat to his crown. And an alpha male's biggest threat was always his younger, stronger, swifter male offspring.

Sure enough, Schuldig got a glimpse of Brad making his way across the room towards him. Only his pre-cognition prevented him from getting ambushed by his father. Schuldig saw the golden eyes flash, then cool as a professional mask slipped into place. Crawford turned to greet his father. "Senator."

"Bradley!" The greeting sounded hearty, cheerful. Gold met gold as the two locked gazes, trying to stare the other down. "Good to see you could make it, son."

"I couldn't disappoint Mother."

Schuldig watched the interplay with interest. The two were very much alike. He wondered if Crawford knew just how much. They were of similar height, coloring. The way the elder Crawford stood and his cool, knowing smile reminded Schuldig of Crawford at his most 'Crawford.' This was the template for Crawford. Now Schuldig understood why Brad insisted on being called Crawford, especially on assignment. He was emulating his father. Yet it was obvious he held little affection for the man.

Did that mean that Crawford had a schism in his persona, a 'Crawford' side and a 'Brad' one? A flash of blue gave him his answer. With the skill of a long-experienced hostess, Claire Crawford had arrived to defuse the potentially scene-making situation. "David, I'm so glad you were able to get away from the office so early." She rose to give him a peck on the cheek which the senator automatically gave back. The public persona slid back into place.

"Claire, you look ravishing," he murmured. He knew the show of affection to his wife would not go unnoticed. Brad's mouth twitched and his brows lowered as he watched the political display, a sham of affection for the benefit of potential voters. Claire spotted the dangerous tides rising and nipped it before the storm could break. With a last smile to her husband, she threaded her arm through her son's.

"Brad, you can catch up with your father later, over dinner sometime. Why don't you come meet the Alvinas? They just moved here last year. . ." with a steady stream of determined chatter, she led Brad away, giving her husband a little wave. The elder Crawford didn't like being out-maneuvered. Schuldig could almost see the angry thoughts roil behind the man's pleasant expression, even without his telepathy, but the senator didn't contest it. Instead, he went to his lifeblood, working the room. Schuldig dismissed the elder Crawford as he watched the younger walk away with his mother.

Brad's face had softened. Schuldig wondered if Crawford knew how much his affection for his mother was apparent. This wasn't Crawford, now. It was Brad talking to his mother. Schuldig smiled at the jewel that he had uncovered. Crawford wasn't schizophrenic or afflicted with multiple personalities. But the two major facets of his personality were very clearly defined, and he kept them delineated with a word to describe the division. There was Crawford, the dominant side. The rest was not-Crawford, or Brad.

The fun now was to see if he could puzzle out the times that Crawford was Brad instead. Crawford was a man that he looked up to, respected and obeyed. Crawford was thrilling and dangerous, like a lion. Yet the heart of the man was named Brad. And that was what Schuldig really desired. He raised his glass to his lips to hide his smug smile. He was on the right track, he knew it. It was just a matter of chasing the prey to ground now. And Schuldig was a most talented hound, one of Esset's best. The best fox-chasers were, after all, those foxes that had been converted into hounds.

He watched Crawford raise his head, almost as if he were the telepath, not Schuldig, and stare coolly at him. It reminded Schuldig of the lions that he had seen in the zoo in Berlin when he had visited his grandmother as a young child. He toasted Crawford across the room and smiled cheekily. The fox-hound was smaller than the lion, but he had an advantage over the lion—the lion never would dream that he would be hunted.

Crawford gave Schuldig one last warning look before he bent his attention to his mother again. Schuldig had that look, that 'I'm up to something' look. Too bad his mother was dampening his foresight. He hadn't foreseen anything happening before they arrived, so he just had to cross his fingers and hope that future he had seen would hold true. He still wanted to know the reason for Schuldig's mischievous look. He sighed to himself. Well, whatever it was, he would handle it, one way or another.

----

In the cooling, concealing dark, a figure slipped out of the party, away from the noise and the mental stress. As if called, Vela appeared, cool fingers soothing away the incipient headache and relieving some of the strain.

After a long moment, the silence was broken by a whisper. "I don't know how much longer I can hide you, Vela."

"I understand. It is a lot to ask—"

"No, no, that's not it at all. He's. . . he's getting close. Too close. He was too interested in Dr. Lovani and Dr. Sutter for my comfort."

"I hope they'll be all right," Vela said. "Poor Rich, poor Xavier. And Tina! They were so young! How did it come to this? I'm so sorry it had to come to this for you."

"I am too. Damn that Esset! To send _him_. How can they use him that way, to hunt you and other innocents like you for not becoming one of them. It's just not fair. It's just not fair!" She balled up her fist. "Damn his father. I blame that bastard. I should have killed him years ago, before any of this happened and damned the consequences."

Vela grasped her hand. "No, don't think like that. If you had been arrested for his murder, we wouldn't have this moment now."

The hand that Vela clasped loosened and joined their fingers. "You're right. How could I ever have wished for that?"

Vela smiled, then sobered. "Be careful around that Aric Rudiger. He's really a very powerful telepath named Schuldig."

"You're a powerful telepath too."

"Not really. I'm an empath. Regardless, I'm passive anyway. He's an active telepath. Quite different. All I can do is receive. He can do more than that. So much more."

"I thought I felt something when I met him. What do we do, Vela? I can't lose you. You're the only thing keeping me sane." There was a short pause. "Maybe if you didn't spend so much of your energy on me—"

"No! No. It doesn't matter, in the end. I'm passive, remember? The best I would be able to do is stay a step ahead. Probably not even that. Esset sent their best."

"Their best. . . My son. . ."

"Hush, hush. It'll be all right," Vela soothed, stroking Claire Crawford's hair. "Open to me. Pass me your pain. I'm here for you."

----

* * *

A/N: 

TrenchcoatMan: A Crawford-cat would have some nasty claws, wouldn't he?

Lyra Stormrider: Sorry to make you wait. I'm glad you're enjoying the story, though and always love to see your reviews.

SaraMichiru: Good to see a new face, we don't mind tardiness here. Thanks for your encouragement and nice words about OC and IC. Always appreciated.

Lestat197: Sorry you had to wait for more Schu-goodness. I promise I'll post in a more timely fashion from now on.

Lily: Schu vs Boston high society? My money's on Schu, even with the cipher-handicap.

CanIsay: Another newcomer. Hello, and thank you for dropping me a review. It's always gratifying to know that people are reading your stories.

Lonecayt: Thank you. I try to keep Schu's age in mind, as well as his experience. I thought that it would only make sense for him to seem younger than Crawford, but older than others his age.

Thekatgrl: Thanks for your praise on my writing style. I think all writers like hearing that. As for your review frequency, I'm just glad that you review at all!

Hisoka: Hello, good to see you with us. Always makes me smile to see you there. Hope you've ironed out some of your computer woes.

Precognition74: Crawford likes coffee. He just doesn't like Schuldig's coffee. He's picky, that one.


	11. Loose Ends and Tethers in Atlantic City

**Chapter 11: Loose Ends and Tethers in Atlantic City  
****-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

That what he goes there for, is to unlock the door.  
While those around him criticize and sleep...  
And through a fractal on a breaking wall,  
I see you my friend, and touch your face again.  
Miracles will happen as we trip.  
**--Seal, _"Crazy"_**

"This isn't bad," Schuldig said as he observed Atlantic City on their way to the hotel. "I still think I like Vegas better."

"Vegas does suit you," Crawford agreed noncommittally.

"I don't think that you meant that as a compliment," Schuldig said dryly.

"Hmm. Well, here we are." Crawford pulled into the hotel's entrance. A valet took the keys from him as two bellhops got their luggage out of the car.

"Nice," Schuldig said.

"Let's find our objective."

Schuldig sighed. "Sometimes, Crawford, you're no fun."

----

Frankie Lovani relaxed in the aromatherapy room. Gentle music played through hidden speakers, soothing her. Mike was right. She had needed this session in the spa. After a face treatment, a good massage, and the peace and quiet of this aromatherapy session, she was starting to feel normal again.

The door opened and closed, letting in a good-looking man with fox-colored hair, wearing one of the spa's black shirts. He grinned at her. His grin was mischievous. "Don't let me bother you. Tracy had to go on break, and she asked me to take over. I hope you don't mind?"

Frankie shook her head. "No, that's fine. I trust Tracy. She would put me in good hands."

"Best in the business," the man said. He had a trace of an European accent, but she couldn't place it.

Long, deft fingers touched her temples and began to massage. She opened her eyes. "I didn't ask for a face massage."

"You look tense. I thought it might help," the man said. He put a finger over his lips. "I won't tell if you won't."

Frankie flashed him a smile. The people here were so nice. She fell asleep under the stranger's soothing touch.

Schuldig smirked at the sleeping woman. "Like I said, best hands in the business."

"Telepathic suggestion didn't hurt, either," Crawford said as he came in. "Let's get this done."

Schuldig clasped one hand over Dr. Lovani's forehead and the other behind Crawford's neck, long fingers cradling his skull. The two men tilted their heads forward to touch foreheads lightly. Within an eye blink, Schuldig found himself inside Crawford's mind.

He walked a vast plain under a dark, still sky. The emptiness wasn't unexpected but still remarkable. Only Crawford had a mind disciplined enough to produce something like this. "So this is what's inside, eh, Crawford?" There was an echoing quality to his voice. He looked around. His mental 'voice' was bouncing off of Crawford's 'walls.' That was astounding. Crawford's shields really were like stone, so solid they had a quality to them approaching weight and substance.

A shadowy figure came out of the undifferentiated dark. "Farfarello!"

Farfarello had changed slightly but was still recognizably his old teammate. "Schuldig. Tis good to see ye."

Schuldig reached out and brushed his fingertips over Farfarello's arm. The Irishman felt solid. Schuldig marveled at that. The few mental constructs he had run across inside people's minds never did. They were ghosts that couldn't stand up to his intrusive 'touch.' Farfarello could. Schuldig felt the roughness of the clothes he was wearing, the ridges of his numerous scars. Farfarello's flesh was cool and unyielding to the touch, as it was in life.

"It's good to see you too," Schuldig finally managed, as he got over the pleasure and surprise. "You look well."

"That I am, Schuldig, that I am," he agreed solemnly. "Ye're about to go traipsin' through that girl's mind, aren't ye?"

"Yes. Crawford has offered to act as an anchor and to pull me back, if necessary."

"Ye never did like that part of ye're job, did ye? And didn't I force somethin' very much like that upon ye? I'm sorry for that, but 'twas necessary, ye know." Farfarello gave him a sidelong glance.

"I know, Farf. Don't worry. I don't hold it against you. I'm just glad that you're here." Schuldig laughed. "How, I still don't know, but you are. How does it feel to be immortal, Farf?"

"We're all immortal, Schuldig."

"I don't know about that," Schuldig said. He peered at Farfarello through half-lidded eyes. "What are you now, Farf? I can't even tell. You're like nothing I've ever seen in anyone's head."

"I'm the pneu'ma, Schuldig. I'm still the same man ye once knew."

Before, you were Jei. And you were Farfarello. Which are you? Jei or Farfarello?"

"Which was I before?"

Jei within and Farfarello without, I would say. How is it now? The two of you separated, didn't you?"

"Aye, aye. But Farfarello couldn't leave without Jei, and vice versa. So we came over together. I'm all that and more besides." Farfarello gave him a meaningful nod, gesturing to the outside. "You'd better get goin'. Crawford's getting impatient."

"You're right. He's never liked delays, has he?" Schuldig created his anchor point and attached it to Crawford's consciousness, so that Crawford could access it at will. "Take care, Farf."

"I will. I will. God will be with ye." Schuldig started, but Farfarello was already gone, and he was hurtling into Lovani's sleeping mind.

----

Compared to Crawford's controlled mental environment, Lovani's mind was like a tumble down the rabbit hole. Even asleep, chaotic thoughts crashed and merged with each other, racing wildly around like frightened rabbits. Schuldig felt grateful for the steadying line that came from Crawford's mind. The tether had taken on the persona of the person it was tethered to and was a secure, stout cable that kept Schuldig from getting swept away by Lovani's undisciplined mental mess.

Schuldig slogged through that mess, sifting out the flakes of gold from all the sand. A face stopped him. It was of a woman, sharp featured, ageless and nearly sexless. Her eyes were large, watchful. The only indication of her age was the faint lines radiating from her eyes and the dark hair liberally streaked with grey. It seemed vaguely familiar, but Schuldig couldn't figure out where he had seen it before. He sifted some more and was able to put a name to the face: Vela Berdan.

Carefully, Schuldig took these culled few nuggets and squirreled them away. He erased her memory of seeing him and fogged her memories of the experiments she had conducted on the psi talents. He nudged her to believe that they had been failures and to burn her notes and research. For good measure, he persuaded her to give up paranormal research altogether. That took considerably more effort, because it was an interest deeply ingrained in her. From her mind he found the location of Sutter. The good doctor was enjoying a solo round of golf. Perfect.

Like a man pulling himself to shore, he brought himself back hand over hand along Crawford's tether. Once he was back in Crawford's mind, he looked around for Farfarello, but the Irishman was gone. Too soon, he found himself cast out of Crawford's mind. He blinked as he settled himself back within his own psyche. He staggered a little, and Crawford steadied him even as he led him out by one elbow.

Schuldig's steps didn't steady until they were nearing Schuldig's hotel room. Schuldig handed Crawford the keycard and watched in silence as the precog swiped the card and opened the door. Crawford steered him in the room and onto the bed. Schuldig sat on the edge of the bed frowning. "Sutter."

"What about him?" Crawford asked.

"I have to take care of Sutter."

"No you don't," Crawford said calmly. "You're wiped out."

"We still don't know who's financing this," Schuldig argued as he let Crawford push him back to lay flat on the bed. "Lovani didn't know. Vela was the liaison. She's the key." Crawford paused, then continued his ministrations. He took a towel that had been lying in a shallow bowl filled with water and wrung it out. He then placed the cool cloth over Schuldig's eyes, blocking his vision.

"That's unfortunate," Crawford said dryly.

"If I can get to Sutter—"

"It's too late, Schuldig," Crawford said with a sigh.

"But—"

"Sutter," Crawford interrupted, "is about to meet his fate on the golf course. Lightning storm. His dedication to his hobby will prove fatal." As if to punctuate his statement, a threatening growl of thunder sounded.

"Did you--?"

Crawford's silence seemed to reproach him. "Merely a suggestion to the right party at the right time," he finally said. "The future does the rest."

"Damn," Schuldig said. "Too bad Lovani doesn't play golf too. Would've saved me some trouble."

"Unfortunate," Crawford agreed.

"The future," Schuldig said. "Your stock and trade. I've always wondered. What's it like, Crawford? To see what everyone else doesn't?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Schuldig."

"I sometimes wished I had been a pre-cog instead," Schuldig said.

"And sometimes I a telepath." Schuldig felt the bed shift as Crawford sat on the edge of it. Schuldig moved his arm until the backs of his fingers brushed against Crawford's hip. Crawford didn't move away.

Schuldig let his fingers remain there. The small contact was reassuring. He laughed suddenly. "I wonder what you would be like if you had been a telepath," he said.

"About the same, I would think," Crawford said.

Schuldig lifted a corner of the towel to look at Crawford. "You'd be wrong." He lowered the corner again, enjoying the cool darkness. "Our talents shaped us, shaped our personalities. I wouldn't be as confident as I am today if I didn't know what ran through people's heads. Nagi wouldn't be as alienated, and you wouldn't be as arrogant."

"If I had telepathy instead of pre-cognition, I would be just as 'arrogant' as before. Just for a different reason." Crawford countered.

"True," Schuldig agreed cheerfully. "But you wouldn't be as remote. You wouldn't be able to be."

Crawford didn't have anything to say to that. The two sat in companionable silence, listening to the rain pelt the windows and the storm roll past. At one particular lightning strike, Crawford's lips curved faintly. He loved tying up loose ends. His smile faded. He still had the major loose end, Vela Berdan, to take care of. And that loose end would be the one to tie all the last of the loose ends together. Crawford just hoped that he wasn't going to find a Gordian knot for him to unravel at the end of Vela's thread.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N:  
Thanks to-  
Lestat197 – Your enthusiasm always does me good and is very encouraging to me, thanks for the support.

Lily – I liked Schu as observer, too. With his ability to see all facets, even the unspoken ones, I imagine that he knows quite a bit about human behavior and social patterns. Thank you for your kind words about my OCs. I'm thankful to have the reassurance that they don't detract from the story.

Precognition74 – Claire is going to pull another surprise or two out in the future. Like her son, she's not all that she seems to be on the surface.

Tysoyo Kalli – Welcome, glad you've dropped in! Thank you for your reviews on my other stories, and on this one. It's always good to know that people are reading them. I'm delighted that you've caught up, and hope that you'll enjoy the rest.


	12. The Fox and the Hare

**Chapter 12: The Fox and the Hare

* * *

**

Schuldig walked the crowded streets, skimming the passing people's thoughts absently, more out of habit than any real desire to do so. The trip to Atlantic City had provided the meanest of tidbits. To Schuldig's way of thinking, it had been a waste of time. All they had garnered was a face to put to the last name on their list of rogue talents. It was their last chance to pin the last loose end of all, the one who had gathered this group together.

Crawford was up in his hotel room, reading over the files and notes that they had accumulated, trying to uncover the slightest clue, coaxing out that elusive window into the future. Schuldig preferred a more random approach. When Schwarz was facing a dead end like this, they had different methods of determining the next way forward. Most of the time, Crawford's way was the right one, the one that saw them through the crisis.

But every once in a while Schuldig's chaotic method was the one that opened the new door. He would wander, sometimes all day, skipping randomly around, lifting a memory here, a rumor there. In the back of his mind, he would try to match these scraps to the scraps he already had. Most had to be discarded. Every once in a while, though, he would be surprised with a seamless fit.

It looked like this run was going to be one of those fruitless ones. All he had come out with today was a powerful thirst and a swelling headache. He ducked under an awning and entered the cool shadowiness of a small bar. It was late afternoon, so there weren't many people there, just a few regulars scattered down the long, glossy bar. He seated himself at the bar as well. To his relief, they carried a few decent German beers.

It didn't take him long to slake his thirst, even as he sifted through what he had found. Nothing, nothing, and still more nothing. He sighed heavily. No help for it. Well, at least he had gotten out of the hotel. Crawford was no fun when he was in 'über-Crawford' mode. He lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. It formed a trail when he stood up and left. When he stopped just outside the door to ponder his next move, it patiently formed a cloud over his head, held in by the awning.

He was still standing there when a familiar figure walked by. Her silvery hair picked up the deepening red of the setting sun, like the glint of a far-off fire. Schuldig took one last drag off his cigarette and discarded it, stepping out of the awning's shadow to follow. What was Claire Crawford doing on this unremarkable back street? Other than the hole-in-the-wall bar he had just left, there was nothing here.

The street was more an alley running between a mail-order supply warehouse and an abandoned building. He wished he could skim her thoughts, but the challenge of tailing her was enough to amuse him. To his surprise, she stopped at the back door of the abandoned building, and after a furtive glance around, unlocked the door and slipped in.

Schuldig watched her go in, then approached the door himself. He tried the doorknob. She had locked it. He nibbled on his lower lip. Had he worn the right watch today? He took it off and checked the back. Yes, luck was with him. He took the small piece of metal and unfolded it into a small lock pick. He hadn't had to use one in a long time, not since they had picked up Nagi.

He laughed at himself, a low, amused chuckle. They had all gotten so complacent. It was easy to do so, though. They were such an efficient team and always held the best cards. Still, he chided himself, there was no reason to let old skills get rusty. Even though the years had faded the skill, his fingers still remembered the familiar motions, and the lock clicked obligingly open after only a couple of seconds.

He listened intently, but there was no sound on the other side of the door. Carefully, he eased the door open and peered through the crack. A broken and boarded window let in a few rays of light to illuminate the room. It was empty except for a staircase. He slipped through the door and locked it behind himself. The room was forlorn, long abandoned, with motes of dust dancing in the crooked beams of light.

On the floor was a thick layer of dust, except for a path cleared by numerous passings over time. Someone had come and gone frequently from this place, always using the same path. He examined the footprints. He was no expert tracker, but in the dust, the tracks were easy to read. He could make out only two sets, over and over again. Small, high-heeled prints. Claire's. And another set, larger, wearing more sensible shoes. Flats, or loafers, maybe men's dress shoes? He couldn't tell.

He ghosted up the stairs. When he got near the top, he heard voices. Following his sharp ears, he traced the conversation to a closed door off to the left. Pressing against the wall, he eavesdropped on the conversation. If his talent refused to cooperate in such close proximity to a cipher, there still was the old-fashioned way of gathering information.

-

Vela Berdan wondered at Claire's new turn. Claire was an expert at maintaining a serene poise, but the two women had known each other for a long, long time. Vela knew what she saw today was not just a façade but what Claire was actually feeling. Her empathy simply confirmed it. Claire reached out a hand, and Vela took it, strengthening the bond between the two women even more. Vela felt a wave of happiness and conviction pour from Claire.

Claire had made a monumental decision, something that put her turbulent soul at ease. Unfortunately, Vela was an empath, not a telepath, so she couldn't tell what that decision was. Claire wasn't volunteering the information, either. She buzzed around the room, vibrant with barely suppressed excitement, even as she discussed what to do about their current situation.

Claire was happy and that pleased Vela, Even though she was puzzled as well. Her happiness turned to dismay as Claire outlined her plan. "No, Claire! You can't tell your son about me. He would come for me!" _Possibly you too_, she thought to herself. Vela didn't dare say that out loud. Claire would never believe her son could be a threat to her.

"Don't worry, Vela. I have it all planned out. He will listen to reason, once I clear away the evil that has a hold on him."

Vela's alarm grew at the strange fire that burned in Claire's eyes. They were light, like the underbelly of a thundercloud during a lightning strike. Once again, she cursed the passive nature of her gift. Through her bond with Claire, she could draw away pain and soothe the fragile soul, helping Claire keep the tenuous grip on her sanity, but Vela wondered if the recent events had finally cracked the thin veneer of normalcy that held Claire together.

Claire never had been well, and the crushingly cruel life she led had not helped. Through the years, Vela had furtively stood in the shadows, trying to hold this dear woman together. It had been a strain on them both not to be able to bring into the open the bond that they shared. It was special, unique, one that only they could share. Somehow, Vela was able to function around Claire's cipher talent. She never questioned the good luck. It had brought them both through the rough years of not being able to be together except in furtive, fleeting moments like this.

She squeezed Claire's hand. "Please, Claire, don't do this unless you're sure."

Claire's eyes cleared of that disturbing fire and softened in clear affection. She placed her other hand over their joined ones. "I would never risk your life, Vela. You're too important to me. I will be sure before I tell him." Her gaze faded into memory. "He's always been such a thoughtful boy. So intelligent. He'll see reason easily enough."

Reluctantly, she released Vela's hand. "I have to go. I invited Brad to supper, and I want to take care of a few details before he arrives." She smiled, her face a little odd. "I want to make sure that everything is right for my son's homecoming."

Vela escorted Claire to the door, trying to drink in every last moment with her. When the door closed behind Claire, Vela drew herself erect. She was a handsome woman, with a face and bearing that had been little touched by age. Her long, lean body had a regal aspect, heightened by the contrast of her well-cut, mannish suit and her decrepit surroundings.

She gripped the rail and debated whether to go up or leave through the same door that Claire had just used, one last attempt to elude her Esset hunters. She raised her chin. She didn't want to face the end like a hunted beast. She was a daughter of an old and respected family. She would face her end with dignity and as much grace as she could muster.

She entered her room and lit a few candles against the strengthening night. Day had departed. Night was now here, stealing the light. "Thank you for waiting for her to leave," she said quietly. "I know why you're here."

Schuldig came out of the shadows sporting a playful smirk. "I thought you might."

"Why did you wait?" Vela asked. The Esset man seemed like he was in no rush. She wouldn't mind a few answers before she died.

Schuldig let her know that he had read her thoughts by a slight widening of his smirk. He might indulge her in an answer or two. If it amused him. He always liked this stage in the game. It was now up to Vela how long she was going to live, depending on how long she could keep Schuldig amused. Schuldig also was a curious creature. He had a few questions for Vela, too. He would answer hers first, though. There was no harm in it.

"She's a non-participant. There's no reason to involve her."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that she is your partner's mother, would it?" Vela chuckled at Schuldig's start of surprise. "Don't tell me that they are starting to give Esset agents hearts now."

"Not likely," Schuldig growled. "Don't expect weakness or mercy from me, old woman."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vela shot back tartly. "What Esset says goes, I'm aware of that. To do otherwise would be to forfeit your own life, and if you weren't aware of that, the first act of mercy would have been your first and last lesson in that inconvertible fact. You wouldn't have gotten where you are if you had those qualities in you."

Schuldig's smirk resurfaced. "Well then, now that we know where we stand, let's play a game."

"Fond of games are you?" Vela said. "Let me guess. Twenty questions."

"Or however many I like," Schuldig said with a shrug. He sat down in a leather-upholstered chair and waved Vela into the other. Like magic, a handgun appeared in his hand. With a click, he set the pistol on the small table at his elbow.

Vela brought over a candle and took the other chair. She set the candle on the table next to her chair. The two stared at each other for a moment, then Schuldig asked the first question. "How do you do it?"

Vela immediately knew what he was referring to. That would be the first question any talent would ask. "Get around Claire's cipher ability? I don't know, really. We met as young women in college. Something just. . . clicked. It was like fate. It was as if we had uncovered a bond that had connected us since the day that we were born." Vela linked her hands together and folded them over her stomach comfortably. "Do you know anything about bonds, Esset?"

"Not Esset. Schuldig." Schuldig's white grin flashed in the gathering dark.

"Ah. Guilty. Are you?"

"Aren't we all?"

"You didn't answer my question, Schuldig," Vela said, lightly stressing his name.

"I know about bonds, yes." Schuldig's smirk had faded a bit, but he was willing to indulge his prey a bit. That was part of the game.

"Why, I think that you do, Schuldig." Vela sounded surprised that Schuldig would so readily admit the truth.

Schuldig turned briefly serious. "I'm guilty, but I'm not a liar, Berdan."

"Really, Schuldig?" Vela murmured. "Then what about your bond with your partner? With Brad Crawford?"

Schuldig stared broodingly at the candle at Vela's elbow. "Of course we have a bond. We're a team. I have a bond with all of my teammates; that's what makes us the best."

"Are you lying to yourself now, Schuldig? Or just trying to avoid the real question?"

Schuldig's glance at Vela was sharp. "Don't forget I can end this session whenever I want." He made no move for his gun, though.

"Don't answer, then. I'm just the rabbit, facing down the fox." She motioned to the russet gleam of Schuldig's hair. You even have the coloring of one."

"You have the look of a hare, not a rabbit. Lean. Are you fast like one?" Schuldig's face turned sly as he nudged the gun closer to Vela.

Vela's glance darted to the gun, then away again. She wasn't going to play that particular game with this fox. The hare was fast, but the fox was younger and faster. "Age catches up with you," she said instead.

"Smart hare." Schuldig idly spun the gun around, like a deadly version of spin-the-bottle. "Age isn't going to be a factor for you any more."

Vela licked her lips. Death was approaching. She could sense it. What would become of Claire? The first touch of panic stroked her. "Brad Crawford," she pressed. That tenuous link of her to Claire to Brad to this man was her only thin thread of hope.

Schuldig looked wary. "What about him?"

"You wouldn't want him—upset, would you?"

"Crawford? Upset?" Schuldig laughed. "That's not a state he knows anything about. Hard to be, when you can see the future." He grinned. "It kinda gives you a confidence about the way your life is going, takes away all the unpleasant surprises."

"Even about a cipher?" Vela was rewarded by a small wrinkle of worry on Schuldig's brow.

Schuldig frowned inwardly. How did Claire Crawford's cipher talent affect her son? He didn't know. Not that he was going to tell Vela.

Vela pressed on. "What do you know about Claire's condition?"

"Condition?" Schuldig's interest was engaged again. Vela didn't like that probing, searching look. She felt even more like a hare paralyzed by the stare of the fox. She forced herself to speak. It might be the only way to save herself. And to save Claire as well.

"Yes. You can't read her mind, can you?" Schuldig's unconscious wince was answer enough. "Gave you a headache when you tried, didn't it."

"Understandable," Schuldig said. "She is a cipher, after all. But I was able to lift a few things. Like. . ." his voice died off as he remembered. "No wonder your face was familiar when I lifted it from Lovani."

"Lovani!"

"Lovani and Sutter," Schuldig told her absently as he started putting the pieces together.

"What did you do to them?" Vela asked.

"Crawford killed Sutter. In an indirect manner," Schuldig told her absently. Things made sense now. "I mind-wiped Lovani. She won't recognize you now, I'm afraid."

Vela felt cold fear sweep through her. It was real. Death was here for her. This young man with the unconcerned manner was going to kill her. She couldn't allow it. Claire needed her. She flicked a frightened glance at him, saw that he was distracted. She lunged for the gun.

Schuldig had been distracted, but he had the instincts of a wild predator. His hand was there first. A shot rang out, and Vela staggered back to fall into her chair again. She pressed her hand on the pain in her chest. As she pulled her hand away, it trembled when she saw the blood covering it. "No," she whispered.

"Sorry," Schuldig said, not sounding sorry at all. "That's what I came here to do, though. Why are you so surprised?"

Vela's eyes blazed up at him. "Damn you! You've ruined it all!"

Schuldig reared back in surprise. He had not expected this reaction. Vela lunged upwards out of her chair. Schuldig raised his gun, but Vela ignored it to grab his wrist with a hand like an iron vise. "You wanted to know?" Vela hissed. "Well I'll give it all to you. All of it." Approaching death gave new facets to her empathy, and she funneled her desperation into him, overwhelming his defenses. In a large wave, she lashed out, flooding the telepath with all her memories at once.

Schuldig gave a strangled cry and tried to throw her off, but death seemed to have lent her strength that she should not have possessed. She relentlessly poured it all out to him, even as her life's blood poured out onto the floor. Drained, she swayed then hit the floor, her dead eyes staring sightlessly. Schuldig made a small, gasping sound, his eyes wide and just as sightless as he struggled to contain the flood of information and find a rock for his battered psyche to cling to.

The moon was high when his sight finally cleared, when he finally had control. He stumbled to his feet. "_Gott. Mein Gott,_" he gasped. Crawford. He had to find Crawford. Claire Crawford was a time bomb, primed to go. And the deactivation switch had just been killed. The clock was ticking. His gaze darted from side to side. Crawford, where was he? At the hotel? No. He was going to dine with his parents. Tonight. Schuldig's panicked gaze flew to his watch. Now. He was there now.

Schuldig scooped up his gun and leaped over Vela Berdan's dead body. This was bad. Vela had been the only thing holding Claire together. He ran down the stairs. One good thing had come out of that bewildering flood of information. He now knew where Crawford's parents lived. As he ran, he pulled out his cell phone. Crawford's phone rang, but he didn't pick up. With a curse, Schuldig punched the phone off and ran faster. He had to catch up with Crawford before he saw his mother.

-

A/N: Mein Gott – "My God" in German.

Sorry it took so long. I usually like to thank each reviewer personally, but I unfortunately can't this time. But I would like for all that reviewed to know, your words are very much appreciated and I thank you deeply for taking the time to leave me a review, new reviewers and returning reviewers both. If it wasn't for you, I probably would no longer bother trying to find the time to post this. Hope you enjoy!


	13. The Lion and the Nightingale

**Chapter 13: The Lion and the Nightingale

* * *

**

Mother of motion, the eyes can't capture time,  
Falling emotion, the blind now lead the blind,  
We commit indiscretions, and omit our sins from sight,  
In a world of intangibles, too many things seem right  
The Crüxshadows, _"Cruelty"  
_

Crawford shut off the car and stared at the house that he had spent his teenage years in. It was a big Georgian mansion, stately and severe. Three stories of dark brick stood as a monument to appearances and ambition, a shrine to political status. Just the sort of place one would expect a U.S. senator to live in. The white-trimmed windows were all dark.

Crawford passed the Palladian front door and went to the side of the house. He let himself into the kitchen. The cook had gone home for the day. Mrs. Derwin was always the last to leave, so if she was gone, so were the other servants. At least there weren't going to be any awkward witnesses to the confrontation. He frowned over that. His mother knew he was coming. If David Crawford had known his son was arriving, he would have kept a few of the staff around, to better play lord of the manor to the prodigal son. That meant his mother hadn't told David that Brad was coming. Wonderful.

Crawford braced himself for the upcoming unpleasantness, moving through the dark house with ease. Like his father's anticipated reaction, nothing else changed in the Crawford domain. There was where the two Crawfords differed—response to change. David Crawford hated it and didn't take it well. Uncertainty always bogged him down. Brad Crawford hated it as well, but his gift always provided him a way to see through the messes.

He had taken after his father in the respect that he didn't like surprises any more than his father did. David was going to be apoplectic to be visited by his son with no advance warning. Crawford smirked a little at that. The irony was rich. David Crawford would give anything to be able to see into the future. A meticulous planner, the senator had alienated the one person who could have furthered his career beyond his wildest dreams, the one person who had a talent that he would have killed to possess.

Crawford was definitely his father's son. When he started to display flashes of foresight, he had kept it to himself, carefully testing and fostering the talent. He'd told no one, not even his mother. Most certainly not his father. It had puzzled him why his talent hadn't worked when he was at home. His talent had grown stronger and stronger, but the strange blank spells always occurred when he was around his mother. That hadn't been explained until he'd come to Rosenkreuz.

He'd found out about Rosenkreuz while he was finishing up school. It was a whisper here, a rumor there. He had patiently unearthed what he had needed to know. Rosenkreuz had a way of recruiting its future pupils, usually by force. It had been an unheard of event for a student to find his way to it. Yet Crawford had appeared at their gates not even a day after his graduation at the elite English academy, of age and demanding to be admitted.

Rosenkreuz hadn't known what to do with him at first. But he had shown them what he was capable of, let them glimpse the possibilities, and they had taken him in with open arms. He had never looked back. He, of all people, knew his destiny when he saw it. Rosenkreuz had been ecstatic. Pre-cognitives were among the rarest of the talents, reliable ones even rarer still. Once there, he came to realize through careful experimentation on his rare trips home that his mother was a cipher. He had learned many other things, too.

It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement. Crawford had honed his considerable talent, biding his time, gathering information, polishing his plan. He had formed his team, one at a time. Nagi he found as a small, starving child in Japan. He had nurtured the boy on a spoon-fed diet of hate and fear, even as he encouraged the boy to grow into a youth to be reckoned with.

Jei, a broken lad in an insane asylum in Ireland, had been a little harder. Nagi had been a creature of emotions, but very logical ones. Jei had been pure madness, cracked and shattered shards that could slice to the bone. Crawford still had a scar on his left palm as proof. If he hadn't foreseen the slash, the scar would not have been, and neither would Crawford. Instead of a thin scar on his palm, he would have been sporting a long gash across his throat, pouring his life's blood out on the asylum's cold tile floor.

Crawford had been patient, though. He had seen the coming of the linchpin. Schuldig. Schuldig had helped Crawford with Nagi when Crawford couldn't grasp the boy's thoughts and feelings, had been instrumental in making Jei into Farfarello. Jei couldn't function; his madness controlled him. Farfarello, on the other hand, controlled his madness. And Schuldig had made it all work.

Schuldig. A scrawny waif, all wild hair and wide smirk. He had possessed the smirk even back then. Crawford had not been impressed by what he saw at first, even though he had known about Schuldig's coming for years and knew what the telepath was going to eventually be capable of. He remembered his first glimpse of a skinny, cocky kid, full of confidence and brattiness.

Schuldig had not known about Crawford's interest in him. He had struggled through Rosenkreuz unaware of his greater purpose, of his role in Esset and more importantly, Crawford's plan. Crawford had watched the pre-adolescent turn into a wiry teen, then a sleek adult. He had noted the mental changes as well. Schuldig had never broken under Rosenkreuz's indifferently cruel thumb, but he had learned diplomacy and deceit. This had pleased Crawford at the time.

For the first few years, Crawford had felt no connection with the German, despite coveting him for his talents. He had been like a tool to Crawford, a pet to manipulate as he saw fit. And he had, without a qualm at the time. Looking back, it wasn't surprising, really. Crawford had neither known Schuldig nor cared to back then. They had little in common. The two had been separated by cultures, years and team roles as well as by social status.

Crawford put his hand on the cherrywood newel. It was original to the house, a fine example of 18th century craftsmanship. He had been surrounded by antiques such as this all his life, to the point that he rarely noticed them. Crawford had come from an affluent family, old money. Schuldig had come from near poverty. However, the most disparate of all to Crawford was not that, even though Schuldig would have disagreed.

The thing that Crawford felt really set the two apart was their fathers. Both boys had loved their mothers. Only one boy had also loved his father. Crawford would never have shed tears over being separated from his father. The very thought of his father had sometimes brought the sheen of tears to Schuldig's eyes when he had first been brought to Rosenkreuz. He had been open in how much he missed his parents, defiant, genuine and unashamed. Nonetheless, Crawford had marveled not at the willingness to shed the tears but the fact that they were there at all.

Schuldig didn't speak of his parents, but Crawford knew their son loved them. Whenever they were in Germany, Schuldig always managed to slip away for a few hours. Crawford, or the rest of Schwarz for that matter, had never asked. Everyone suspected, though, that Schuldig was off playing the role of loving son. Crawford mounted the stairs, setting an impassive face as he did so. Maybe Schuldig hadn't played a role. Maybe he actually was one.

Crawford ran a hand along the satin-smooth railing as he ascended. Crawford, wrapped in his own agenda, had thought little about the team he had so carefully pieced around himself beyond how they were useful to him. When did that change? When Farfarello died? It seemed that way, on the surface. Deep underneath, Crawford saw the truth—Farfarello had merely driven the change to the surface for everyone, including Crawford, to see.

The change really had started when Crawford and Schuldig had returned to Germany after their first assignment abroad together. Schuldig had disappeared and returned with the cold January wind freezing his tears on his cheeks. Crawford hadn't said anything, but he had known that Schuldig had returned from an all-too-short visit to his parents. And he had felt envy. Envy, and another emotion that he hadn't admitted to until now. The desire to comfort. He had wanted so badly to wrap his arms around Schuldig and wipe the tears off of his face.

That desire had shocked Crawford. Shocked him and terrified him. He couldn't allow his team to get close. If he allowed them to become too precious, then emotions would begin to cloud his judgment, and his plan might fail. Unthinkable. It couldn't be allowed. He had fought it for so long. He had been a fool. Farfarello had shown him that. Once the crack had breached the surface, it could not be unmade. All he had done was to deny what was there. Stupid. To ignore such a thing was to risk it being exploited.

He had the luck of the gods. No one had ever tried to exploit that weakness. Now that Crawford acknowledged it, it was a weakness no more. It was sad that it took Farfarello's death to make him see. A light ripple of laughter seem to dance across his mind, making him start. Death was relative, wasn't it? Within, he felt Farfarello agree before falling silent. Crawford could feel the Irishman's presence. For once, Farfarello hadn't made a comment, then gone back into the depths to sleep. He was watching. It felt like he was waiting.

At the top of the landing, Crawford heard music. The light notes of a piano tumbled down the stairs like playful kittens one moment, like moonlit water the next. Crawford felt the corners of his mouth lift involuntarily even as his heart ached at the beauty of the music. His step quickened as he climbed towards the sound.

He slipped into the music room and silently closed the door behind him. The flow of music had gentled into a soothing lullaby. Crawford leaned back against the door and remembered his mother playing this very piece when he had been very young. She would hum it as she tucked him in. He rested against the door, closed his eyes and let the notes wash over him. His eyes opened when the music took a darker turn. As if she suddenly realized that the music had changed, she stopped abruptly.

Crawford pushed away from the door. "Mother?"

Claire turned to him, her face in shadow. A bar of moonlight fell across the keys of the piano, caressing her still hands. The moonlight from the windows was the only source of illumination. "Brad. You're here."

"Yes. I told you I would be." Crawford was a little puzzled. Why was she sitting in the dark? "Why don't we turn on a light?"

"The moonlight is beautiful, is it not?" Claire remarked, as she covered the piano keys.

Crawford didn't think about moonlight, not aesthetically, anyway. It was merely a hindrance or a help, depending on how much illumination was needed at any given time. "Where's David?"

Claire dipped her head, and Crawford saw a serene smile curve her mouth. Her eyes still were in shadow. "You don't have to worry about David anymore, Brad. You can come home now."

"Come home?" Crawford repeated. "Mother, this hasn't been home for a long time." Realizing that he might sound harsh, he softened his voice. "I've got my own life now that I have to lead. What's the old saying? You can never go home, no matter how much you want to."

"Have things changed so much then?"

Crawford couldn't tell why, but the question sounded fraught with hidden meaning, nuances he couldn't guess. Never had he cursed his inability to foresee around her as he did now. "I guess that would be right." He chuckled ruefully. "Besides, you know that I couldn't stay under the same roof as David for longer than a night or two."

"David no longer is a factor here," Claire said with uncharacteristic sharpness. Crawford took a step back in confusion.

"No longer a factor?" Crawford felt a cold feeling creeping up on him. Something about that sounded very, very wrong. "What do you mean by that?"

She waved that away. "Come home, Brad," she repeated, a thread of desperation stringing the words together. "Leave this life you're currently leading behind and start anew." She stood, knocking over the piano stool with a discordant crash. Crawford flinched back at the sound, but she paid it no heed as she held a hand out to him.

"Let's be a family again. I've weeded out the root of this house's evil. Let's make sure it never grows again. We'll plant new flowers to choke out the last of the evil weeds. Stay with me."

Crawford looked down at the outstretched hand that had soothed away many a childhood illness, ache, and hurt. The hand that had never fallen in anger on him, that had used to stroke his hair until he fell asleep. "I can't."

Her hand dropped, then clenched at her side. "Am I too late, then?"

Crawford didn't know how to answer that, so he remained silent. She laughed, but the laugh sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I guess I am," she said. "If only I had killed him years ago."

"Killed?" Crawford's voice rose, alarm making his voice sharp. "What are you talking about, Mother?"

"Your damned father, that's what," Claire said with frightening vehemence. 'He took you away from me, turned you away from my side."

Crawford felt like he was participating in the last act of a play, with no idea as to anyone's script, not even his own. This didn't sound like his mother. Someone had handed her the wrong script. "David? He used to say that about YOU."

"I know the truth of it," Claire said calmly. The new calm sent chills up Crawford's spine. It sounded too flat. Too calm. _The eye of the storm_, he thought. The calm reminded him of the eye of a storm. "All of it, Crawford."

"All of it? All of what?" Crawford then realized what his mother had called him. Why had she called him 'Crawford?' She had never done that. He felt reality was sliding through his fingers like water. "What's going on?"

"My sweet Brad," his mother said sorrowfully. "He's become a Crawford. The Crawford name has always been my curse. Nothing more to be done but to get rid of it, all of it. Father and son." She stepped forward into the moonlight. The silvery light glimmered off the tears on her face, the strange gleam in her eye, the cold metal of the gun in her hand. "Oh my poor Brad, I loved you so."

Crawford wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream denial. This could not be happening to him. As if in a dream or a vision, he watched as she aimed and pulled the trigger. Crawford only had a moment to feel disbelief and a strange sense of irony before he felt the bullet's impact, then he saw no more.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to: Tysoyo Kalli - Nope, the muse ain't dead yet! Got more coming along shortly (hopefully). Thanks for the sweet review.  
Lestat197 – No prob. I get mixed up with chapters a lot on this, and I'm _writing_ this! Glad you liked it!  
TrenchcoatMan – The end is in sight, but there's still a few more chapters yet. Hopefully I can get Omi and Nagi to cooperate for you.  
Yanagi-sen - Evil laugh We like thickening plots. Makes things more fun!  
Suicide.angel01 – Poor Crawford. A bit tough on him. And getting worse yet. I feel almost evil for doing this to him. Almost. Glad you like the subtlety.  
Lily – I couldn't leave you guys in the lurch. Sorry it took so long to gear back up again.  
Icedbubble – Thanks for the encouragement, and the compliments. It's what keeps me on track when this story starts to bog me down. Appreciated!  
Eternal-Darkness2 – Here's the next chapter, hope you enjoy. Hopefully, I won't have such a long wait between this chapter and the next one! 


	14. Paying for the Sins of our Fathers

**Chapter 14: Sins of our Fathers**

Schuldig bit his lip hard enough to draw blood but in his worry he didn't even notice that sharp sting. Ordinarily, he would have been fascinated to visit the house that Crawford had lived in and see a glimpse of the man's past, but now all he could feel was fear. Fear and guilt. If anything happened, it was going to be his fault. He should have questioned Berdan further, found out the exact nature of her connection with Crawford's mother.

What he had learned in that last wild outpouring from Vela he still was trying to sort through. The overlying theme, the main thought that had been in her head before she had died was the thing that consumed him now. Claire Crawford had been an overstressed vessel that should have shattered years ago. The tireless efforts of Vela Berdan had been the only thing that had held her together.

Claire was a hollow crystal, handled carelessly by those who had so casually determined her life without regard to her wishes or desires, overheated by her religious zeal and her constant fear of losing her beloved son. Inside was a hot dark tide, concealed by the bright and sparkling exterior. Without Vela to draw off the heat, Claire was undoubtedly going to explode. The only question was when, and what would set her off?

With a brusque wave, he released the cab driver and sent him on his way. Cold gathered inside him when he saw the dark house. No lights were on, and it was too quiet for his peace of mind. The cold spread further when he saw Crawford's car parked in front. He skirted the car, drifting his hand over the hood. The hood was still warm but cooling. He had been here for a few minutes. Maybe he still had time. He didn't know what Berdan did to reach the cipher, but he had no choice but to try and take Berdan's place until they could find some way to stabilize Claire.

The front door was locked. The lock pick came out for the second time that night, and Schuldig coaxed the lock open. He glided in, listening intently in the dark. His glance darted around, seeking any sign of a security system. No blinking lights or alarms greeted him. He hoped that meant that it was off. He didn't want to warn Claire, make her feel threatened or cornered. He was going to have to tread very carefully—his thoughts scattered when the odor hit him.

Blood. There was no mistaking that scent; the color of it, black in the moonlight. He made a panicked sound and with a flailing hand, fumbled for the light switch. Golden light flooded the room, revealing the source of the blood pool. He had dark hair, wore glasses like Crawford, and his dead staring eyes were familiar. But the dark hair was liberally streaked with distinguished white, the lines on his face were deeper and his features rougher.

Schuldig slumped in relief, catching the doorframe to keep from falling. It wasn't Crawford. It was Crawford's father, the senator. From the stickiness of the congealing blood, the man had been dead for a while. This was bad. "Crawford," he whispered, then began to run up the dark stairs and searching down the inky hallways, all the while whispering half-forgotten prayers under his breath.

----

Claire dropped to her knees next to her fallen son. Tenderly, she gathered him up in her lap. "You've grown up to become just like your father," Claire said sadly. "I had to save you from Esset. Don't you see I had no choice?" Tears fell from her eyes as she stroked his hair back from his brow, leaving a smear of blood behind. "Don't worry, Brad. Mother's here. She'll always be here for you." She put the gun to her own head. "My baby. I'm afraid neither one of us is going to heaven now. But at least I could stop you before you could further damn your soul." The gun report was loud in the still night. The gun fell with a thud from Claire's now slack hand.

----

Schuldig's heart stopped at the sound of the gunshots; one, a long pause, then another. He froze in shock. "_Nein_," he snarled. "_Nein!_" His hoarse denial broke him from his frozen state. He ran towards the origin of the fading sounds.

When he opened the door, he smelled blood again, but this time he knew it wasn't going to be a lucky case of mistaken identity. Fatalistically, he felt for the switch. With a deep breath to brace himself, he flicked it on. What greeted him made him slump against the wall.

If it weren't for the blood splattered over the scene, it would have looked Madonna-like, a mother cradling her son's head in her lap. She was still half upright, held up by the piano behind her, the gun she had used on husband, son and herself lying where she had dropped it. Schuldig knew that she was dead, even though he couldn't see the bullet hole in her temple. He couldn't feel anything from her; the white noise her talent had given him was silenced. Crawford, on the other hand. . .

A drop of blood fell onto Crawford's face. He blinked. Schuldig dropped to his knees beside Crawford. "It's okay, Crawford," he said. "I'll take care of you. Don't worry. Just hold on." Schuldig swallowed hard. The blood was everywhere.

"Don't worry, Schuldig, I'll hold 'im 'til ye can get us to the hospital," an Irish-tinged voice murmured.

Schuldig hissed in surprise. "Farf!"

"Aye. Quit yer flappin' and get movin', ye twit." He frowned slightly, then closed his eyes. Schuldig carefully scooped Crawford's limp body into a secure hold and raced out of the house, panting under his burden, the smell of blood and death like an added weight.

----

Diane Halveck was just getting off her late night shift when she was almost run over on her way out. The intern jumped at the sight of the disheveled redhead with wild blue eyes that suddenly appeared before her. When she saw what he held, she gasped. The man snarled at her, but the words were strange, foreign. She blinked at him, stupefied. He hissed when he saw that she didn't understand and took a deep breath to steady himself.

"English, English," he muttered. "Get me a doctor! Move!" Shocked into action, she ran into the emergency room to get one of the doctors on call there. Schuldig laid Crawford on a nearby gurney. "Don't die on me," he said to the too-still figure. His tone was threatening and pleading. Too soon, but not soon enough, he was shoved aside by the emergency crew at the hospital.

He watched as they wheeled Crawford away, their frantic activity scented with desperation. The sound of someone clearing her throat made him reluctantly turn away. A nurse stood there with a clipboard. "If you could fill these out, sir?" Slowly, Schuldig took the clipboard and stared at it as if he hadn't seen such a thing before. And he hadn't. Whenever anyone in Schwarz had been forced to be admitted to a hospital, it was Crawford who had taken care of the paperwork.

Diane, on her way out the door a second time, saw the redhead's dazed, overwhelmed expression. She suddenly remembered the foreign words he had spoken to her and stopped. "Can you read English?"

Schuldig stared at Diane blankly for a moment before nodding. _Shock,_ the intern thought to herself. She led the man to a nearby chair. "Here, sit. I just finished my shift, so I can spare you a moment. I'll go over them with you." Schuldig followed Diane's instruction distractedly; he was busy darting from mind to mind trying to gather information about Crawford's condition.

He lightly brushed Crawford's mind, and the faintness of that strong presence frightened him. The clipboard slipped from his hands. The intern took one look at his face and told the nurse to get a sedative. Schuldig was barely aware of them rolling back his sleeve and giving him the injection before everything grew fuzzy.

Intern and nurse helped the now groggy redhead onto a nearby stretcher. "He's a good-lookin' one," the nurse said approvingly. The intern took the man's pulse as she perused the face.

"Yes, he is. Let's see how lucky his friend is."

"His friend?" The nurse perked up in curiosity.

Diane smiled in satisfaction at the steadiness of Schuldig's pulse. The smile dropped off her face at the mention of the other man that the redhead had brought in. "Yes. Gunshot to the head. Bad case."

The nurse winced sympathetically. "He's lucky he's not dead."

"He might be before the night is out," the intern replied grimly. Her shift was over, but she waited in the lobby next to the sleeping redhead and waited for news on his friend.

----

Schuldig blinked blearily. Why was he sleeping in his clothes? Where was he? Suddenly he remembered. He shot upright. "Crawford!"

"Oh, you've finally awake," a female voice said. He turned towards the speaker, the movement almost sending him tumbling off the stretcher. Gentle hands steadied him. "Easy there."

Schuldig shoved her away and tried to stand. He would have fallen on his face if those same hands hadn't caught him. "Whoa, there. Where do you think you're going?"

Schuldig clung to the woman for balance. "Crawford?" He tried to scan for the Oracle but couldn't seem to focus. He tightened his grip on the intern's coat. "Where is he?"

She sighed. "Stubborn, aren't you? All right. Come with me." She led him to a wheelchair and shoved him into it. "Don't even think of getting out of that," she said warningly. "Otherwise, I won't take you."

Schuldig's head lolled back and he glared at her. Who did she think she was dealing with? He still felt wobbly, though. He closed his eyes. He would let her take him to Crawford. If she didn't, he would deal with her then. He swallowed. He hoped that Crawford was okay. He hoped that he would be able to talk to the American again, to look him in the eye once more. Even if he told Crawford that it was all his fault and Crawford never wanted to see him again, he just wanted the chance. He could deal with the consequences, if it meant Crawford was alive. All he wanted was for Crawford to live, to be the Crawford he knew.

She took him to a room filled with hissing machinery and beeping monitors. Crawford lay in the middle of it, cocooned in tubes and wires. Schuldig lurched out of the wheelchair and stumbled, catching himself on the bed's railings. He lightly rested quivering fingertips on Crawford's forehead, between his eyes. It was the only skin he could touch from the brows up. The top of Crawford's head was wrapped in bandages.

"Your friend is a very lucky man," the intern said. "The bullet missed the brain. We had to operate to stop the hemorrhaging. It's too soon to tell the extent of the damage, but he will live."

"Live, yes," Schuldig said. "Crawford always has been a survivor. Live how, though? He would rather die than be crippled, or even worse, a vegetable."

"Where there's life, there's hope," Diane said.

Schuldig laughed sardonically. "Such an optimist." He closed his eyes, shutting the woman out. His fingertips firmed, ceased their trembling as he sought contact. There! It was faint, like the dim flash of a fish's scales in a dark pool, but what made Crawford 'Crawford' was there. He sought it desperately, swimming through the dark layers of coma, of pain, of his own drugged stupor. His mind prevented him. Like a swimmer with too short a lungful of air, he couldn't reach it.

Between his battle with Vela and her overwhelming outpouring of memories, the stress of what happened to Crawford and the drugs still in his system, he just didn't have the stamina. With a gasp, he broke off the effort. Spots swam before his eyes and he felt his legs folding under him. The woman caught him before he fell. She was stronger than she looked. She managed to haul him back to the wheelchair.

Schuldig felt the weight of all the night's events roll over him like a stone. The intern's lecture ringing senselessly in his ears, he slumped his head forward and passed out.

-----  
A/N: Well, here I am, back again. I finally figured out how I wanted this story to go, so I was at long last able to get back to this. Hope you enjoy the new chapter. A big thank you to all who reviewed, especially Kye Syr and Stace, for giving me kicks in the rear when I needed it and preventing me from giving up on this story in frustration. My apologies for the long hiatus. Now, I've untangled Schuldig, I need to get back and fix Farf. . .


	15. Hospital Visit

**Chapter 15: Hospital Visit**

Schuldig awoke to a bright white room. The bed he lay on felt scratchy, the sheets stiff. A hospital. The hospital. Crawford lay in a similar bed on the floor above this one. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. The dizziness was gone, but he still felt a little weak. Food. He needed food. Once the basic body imperatives were taken care of, he would go see Crawford.

He didn't want to take the time to go to the cafeteria—it was two floors down and on the opposite side of the building—so he got a few things out of a vending machine, along with a cup of coffee from the machine next to it. He made a face at the coffee. It was bad, even by his standards. He couldn't imagine what Crawford would have to say about it.

Wolfing down the snacks, he walked the halls, his stride purposeful, his eyes cold. No one said anything to him, even when he went into the ICU well after visiting hours. He never seemed more like an angel of death as he roamed halls where people tried to hold on to life. He paused for a moment at the door that separated him from Crawford, then took a breath and went in. He shut the door quietly behind himself and leaned against it.

Nothing had changed since the last time he had been here. The room was dimly lit, bereft of human noises but filled with mechanical ones. Technology labored around the clock to keep the figure on the bed in this world. There was another patient in there, a young pre-adolescent girl, adding to the mechanical din. Schuldig frowned at this. He didn't want the other here. He debated on killing her but couldn't figure out how without raising unwanted attention.

He would get Crawford a private room, then. A place where he could be alone, to sit and wait for Crawford to awaken. He put a fingertip between Crawford's brows and saw that flash of far-away consciousness. He desperately wanted to pursue it but knew that it would be best to wait. He needed the right window of opportunity. One that would allow him time uninterrupted long enough to plunge deep into Crawford's mind, into the very subconscious, all that made up Crawford.

What he needed to do had to be done free of prying eyes, interfering minds. He was going to have to be close, physically close, and for a long enough period of time to slip out of his consciousness and into Crawford's mind. Once he had locked into Crawford's subconscious, then it would be all right. He could even be physically separated from him and maintain contact.

He couldn't wait long, though. Modern technology could keep Crawford's body here, living and breathing in a mockery of life. But Crawford's mind, his persona, was a different matter. The longer he waited, the farther that would slip into the darkness, until not even Schuldig could dredge it back again. If it was not already too late. He let his fingertip trail down Crawford's nose, starting where the bridge of his glasses would rest, then on to lightly tap the tip.

It was odd, seeing Crawford without his glasses. His eyelashes were inky, feathery crescents locking away that far-seeing gaze. He ran a thumb over one of them, then dropped his hand. He didn't have time for this. Even as he told himself that, his hand lifted again to trace Crawford's cheek, his mouth. He might never have another chance to touch Crawford, once he told him that he was the reason that Claire had snapped. For a brief, crazy second, he thought to leave Crawford like this, a dragon encased in amber.

Maybe he would be like the Fujimiya girl, and Schuldig would be like her stoic brother, visiting his loved one like a supplicant visiting a sacred relic. He could bring flowers, tell Crawford about his day, cry over his lost parents, his life in Weiß. . .

Schuldig shook his head clear of the invasive memories. Damn telepathy. Sometimes the memories of others became indistinguishable from his own. He didn't need the parallels with that antisocial little prick from Weiß. They were Schwarz. He didn't have to sit at Crawford's bedside, as the Fujimiya boy had sat at his sister's, and brood over might-have-beens. He could do something about it. He had that power. Schwarz wasn't bound by petty human shortcomings.

He lifted his hand, tightened it into a fist and turned away. "Soon, Crawford. Soon," he promised the silent room as he left. The door softly closed behind him, barely heard in the mechanical noise. Schuldig's departure was noted by the living on the other side of the door. But on the inner side, the nearly-dead didn't register it.

----

Schuldig bounced on his heels in impatience. The intern that had helped him when he first arrived had taken him into her care, pushing him to eat, to go back to the hotel to sleep. This morning she had forced him to go back to his hotel suite to clean up and change clothes. Schuldig had taken the quickest shower he had ever taken since he had left the freezing showers of Rosenkreuz behind and had been back at the hospital in less than twenty minutes. He had been patient, biding his time, even as he watched his window get smaller and smaller.

His patience was rewarded this morning. They had gently refused him admittance to see Crawford while they were in the middle of transferring the other occupant to a new room. She had been upgraded out of ICU, so the change was due, anyway. Schuldig had made it known that Crawford was not to have any more 'roommates.' A look at the cash he was willing to put down made it reality. So Schuldig was left pacing the area outside Crawford's room as they completed the transfer.

His pacing was soon brought to an end by the emergence of the still-comatose girl, surrounded by a swarm of nurses, doctors and family. They reminded him of bees buzzing around a sticky pool of spilled soda, which was pretty much what the girl was. Sweetness, never to be drunk. Gone forever. He could tell that at a mental 'glance'.

The nurses' and doctors' thoughts were brisk, professional, and tinged with regret. Their thoughts were the working bees that crawled around the soda pool. Her family were the angry bees from the other hive. They had been supplanted at this pool, and they knew it. This pool belonged to the doctor-bees and nurse-bees now.

The family-bees could see it, remember the sweetness-that-was, but never taste the fading sweetness again. Soon, the pool would crystallize, degrade into something else. Tasteless, scentless. All trace of the sweetness would be gone, merely a memory. He watched the active clot of humanity pass, expressionless.

When the group had faded into the background din, he entered Crawford's room. The door swung shut behind him, putting another layer between them and the rest of the world. Now it was just Crawford and him. He pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and stared broodingly at Crawford's still face. Even relaxed there was something sharp and hard about his features. Crawford never looked soft. Even the softness of his eyelashes were negated by the uncompromising darkness of them.

Schuldig leaned forward, needing to touch but not certain how. His hands made a few abortive, awkward movements, then stilled and rested nervously on his thighs. He had to feel Crawford's warmth, make the physical connection to aid the psychic one. But how? He didn't want to hold Crawford's hand—it bespoke of a familiarity that Crawford hadn't permitted him yet. It was. . . presumptuous.

He laughed suddenly, the sound chasing away the nerves. Presumptuous. What a thing to think. He had actually even thought the word. So fussy, so formal. The laughter died down, and he chuckled softly to himself. He couldn't _ask_ Crawford for permission. And in cases he couldn't _ask_ Crawford for permission, he took that for free rein to do as he pleased. Sometimes to Crawford's displeasure, but that had never stopped him before. Why was he letting it stop him now?

"Faint heart never won the fair lady," he chuckled to himself. The thought of Crawford's reaction to being compared to a fair lady made him go into fits of laughter again, raising tears in his eyes. After he calmed, he wiped his eyes and sighed. Good thing Crawford was unconscious, and they were alone. He probably sounded like he had lost his mind. He rose from his chair and kicked off his shoes, then crawled onto the bed next to Crawford, being careful not to disturb the wires and tubes.

He sent his mind out like a well-trained attack dog, lighting on the nurses on duty. A tweak here, a tweak there, and he was assured of several hours of non-interference. He hoped it would be enough. Breathing in the fading scent of Crawford's aftershave, he closed his eyes and snuggled in to Crawford's side. Warmth enveloped him. It was strange that someone so normally cold and self-contained could have this pervasive heat.

He parted his lips and touched the tip of his tongue to thewarm skin of Crawford's neck, tasting a smoky saltiness tinged with bitterness. Eyes still closed, he brushed his slightly open mouth over the other man's skin, inhaling the complex scents that Crawford produced, enjoying the tingle of sensation that his exquisitely sensitive lips gave him. He brushed once, twice, then buried his face in Crawford's neck so that every inhalation would be permeated with Crawford's scent.

His free hand, the one he didn't have pinned against Crawford's side, flexed experimentally, like a cat unsheathing and resheathing his claws, drifted down Crawford's chest and belly, then up again. His hand came to rest over the steady thrum of Crawford's heart. Here. Here was where he needed to be. Senses filled with Crawford, he slipped into Crawford's mind.


End file.
